Remember Me
by highlydysfunctionalsociopath
Summary: When Sherlock Holmes saved John Watson's life, for one fatal second he thought everything had gone to plan. The bomb detonated; Moriarty was killed; thanks to Sherlock, John survived. But when John wakes up in hospital, he's not the same person as he was before. The truth? The real John Watson may not ever be coming back... [Rated T for now, M for later chapters,T.W:Amnesia]
1. Chapter 1

First of all, if you're reading this, thank you! This is the first fanfiction I've ever had the courage to publish... I've started writing them so many times, but never felt that they were good enough to share with anyone. But I thought 'What the heck' and decided to publish this one, so I hope you enjoy it. It was betad by the lovely kodkodkittie, and any reviews/comments are more than welcome...now, on with the story...

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It was late at night when John Watson returned from the abyss of his mind. At least, he thought it was John Watson. Maybe it was Jim… no, not Jim. John sounded more familiar, easier on the tongue. He'd heard it before, from someone else's mouth. A friend maybe…or a stranger. Did he even have any friends? Jim – no, _John_ Watson wasn't sure. For a while now, John Watson had felt strange, as if he were floating in vast, bottomless ocean. His hearing, at one point fully blocked up, had melded into a fuzzy buzzing. His vision was gone, and no matter how hard he told himself, no matter how hard he pushed himself, he just couldn't open his eyes. He'd been paralyzed, trapped inside his own body. There were points where he wondered if he was ever going to wake up. Even in his catatonic state, John had felt little stabs of pain – they where what kept him sane. Each prick was reassurance that he wasn't dead yet. But tonight, he pushed harder than normal. He forced himself to wake up, gasping inside his head as the dark ocean drowning him in his mind drained away. The dull throb of his mind, beating a tattoo against his skull that reverberated throughout his entire body echoing his heartbeat, sapped him of the little energy he possessed, leaving him too tired to consider much of anything. John thought he could sense a ticking coming from somewhere nearby, slowly he turned his head to the side, trying in vain to not make the throbbing worse. However, even from this slight movement, pain radiated through his head, and he winced. Why was he in pain? It seemed odd– he hadn't been injured in a while…had he? John couldn't really remember. He thought he remembered his life being boring, and dull, and normal, and overrated. Wasn't it? He couldn't remember, not that he doubted that it mattered. It was strange, this sensation of not knowing information that had the nagging feeling of being extremely important. It was there, in the farthest depths of his brain, right on the tip of his tongue. He just couldn't reach it.

The room he occupied was dark the only light coming from a small emergency sign placed somewhere above him, emitting a piercing green glow. It hurt John's eyes. Squinting, he noticed a small clock stood on the table beside his bed. The glowing numbers read 22:18. It was odd, that number. It seemed fairly familiar, and gave him a calm sort of feeling. From where, though? How could a number be familiar? Considering there were so many out there, so many different combinations, why would he prefer just one? Could it be sentiment? No, somehow he didn't think so. But he doubted it mattered because, the truth was, John Watson didn't know where he was. He'd woken in a strange room, too light and airy to be his home. The bed seemed too hard to be his own, with not nearly enough pillows – he could feel the stiffness of his neck the lack of pillows caused. The air smelled too clean, like someone had sprayed chemicals everywhere, and he could taste it when he breathed in. The room was quiet too, only the sounds of were ticking, breathing, the throbbing in his head and the regular beats of the heart monitor stationed nearby. John stared at it. There was nothing wrong with his heart. Why was it there? Where _was _he? Panic bubbled up inside him, hot and angry, and John instinctively clenched his left hand into a fist. He wasn't sure why, but it felt right. He sat up, ignoring the pain, ignoring the beeping of the monitor as it displayed his panic in a loud, highly annoying way. Twisting around a little, the needle in his arm tugged. It was irritating, so he ripped it out. It slipped off the bed, dripping some sort of fluid onto the tiled floor beside his bed. There were other wires too, and a strange band, displaying his name and some other various information in the form of numbers, around his wrist. The wires were easy to defeat, but the band was stubborn and wouldn't come off. The beeping stopped as soon as the monitor was disconnected from him, and John was glad of the silence. He sat for a moment, looking around himself. The room was rather small, and he was alone in it. On the far side, there were 3 chairs, a small table and a wheelchair. There were some coat pegs nailed to the back of the door, which had a little glass window right at the top, and some sort of instructions below it. They were too dark to read. To the left of his bed, there was a small window covered with dark blue curtains that were drawn together in the center. When John finished his assessment of the room, he decided it was really time to get out. Pushing the covers off himself, he registered some scratchy material taped to his skin in various places that tugged when he moved, but he ignored them completely as he levered himself off the bed. Placing both feet gingerly on the floor, he shivered at the cold that shot through him. He had no shoes, no socks and was clad in only a thin, green gown that didn't cover nearly enough for his liking. Although John wasn't sure how he usually dressed he had a creeping suspicion that it wasn't like this. Transferring his weight onto his feet, he gasped as his head swum. He saw red and black float across his vision, and his head rushed with pain. Reaching up, he felt the same scratchy material that was on his body wrapped around his head. Gingerly, he touched the offending area and was rewarded by a violent surge of pain. He panted, and waited for it to subside, before walking towards the door.

He slipped once, when his legs protested against the movement, but caught himself on the door frame. His whole body _ached_. It was more than just a small, annoying ache – it was big and brutal and felt like he'd been punched all over and thrown against walls and blown up. Blown up? Why would he… Suddenly, an image flashed through his mind, a bright yellow and red burst of colour and the sounds of breaking glass and someone calling his name and then rain or water or something cold and he was going to _kill him for this._ And just as quickly as the vision started, it stopped. John's eyes widened, and he glanced around quickly. The image had been fleeting, but John had no idea what it meant. Was he meant to see it? Maybe his brain hadn't wanted him to know – that's why it cut off. But he didn't have time to worry about that now. He needed to get out of here. Taking a step outside the door, he looked around. Ward 103? He was in a hospital? Strangely, John wasn't surprised by this. Somehow, in the back of his mind, John realised he knew a lot about hospitals, and the IV and chemical smell should have alerted him earlier. The pain as well – that was another give away. As he wandered down the hallway, he noticed a sign for the exit. Ah, that's where he needed to go. The dull pain in the back of his head throbbed painfully, and John did his best to ignore it. As he walked, he passed a few nurses that stared blankly at him, pausing in whatever important work they were doing, and just _staring_. It made him uncomfortable. He just smiled at them and kept walking, nodding towards the exit sign. They didn't smile back. Hmm, that was odd. John didn't think he looked strange. Maybe there was something on his face…

He continued along the corridor, and as he turned right, he saw a man up ahead. The man was talking loudly to himself, sitting next to a hot drinks machine. John stopped for a moment, holding onto the hand rail on the wall for support, and was proud to say he only swayed a tiny bit. Even though the whole corridor seemed to ripple, he felt _completely_ fine. Focusing back on the voice, John listened. The voice was low, rising in pitch and volume as the man became obviously agitated, and taut with some kind of emotion. John wasn't sure which one – maybe it was a mixture. It was smooth, the voice, like the sheets of the bed he'd just vacated; it also had a sort of lumpy quality, like the pillows John had been lying on. It was a nice voice, he decided, and sounded strangely familiar.

"For God's sake," the voice was thick as it said this, layered with all those emotions John was thinking about, and the man took a deep breath and all but punched the machine, his shoulders heaving. Frowning, John walked towards him again. There was a rough sound echoing from the man's throat, and he put it hands together, as if in prayer, and pressed them against his forehead. John could see him breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling rapidly. John wasn't sure what he should do – something told him he should ask how he was, ask if the man needed any help. Then again, John had no idea who he was. The man continued to mutter – God, John thought, I could listen to that voice all day…As much as he wanted to just stand there and _listen_, though, the cup of tea that was stood on the floor next to the man was getting cold. And nobody likes cold tea. So, clearing his throat, he decided on the former option.

"Excuse me," he tried to make his voice sound professional but it was merely more than a squeak. He tried again, "Do you know where I can find the exit?"

The man sighed, grasped the tea off the floor (his hand shaking slightly, John noted) and stood up with a small stretch. John was surprised by how tall he was - much taller than John, but still in proportion. His hair was dark and slightly curly, and hadn't been washed in a few days. That was a shame really, because it was nice hair. Turning to face him, the man opened his mouth to speak but stopped dead when he saw the asker. John waited, eyeing the cup of tea with some interest - he'd only now noticed how thirsty he was. Maybe if the man didn't want it… he'd expected an answer, though. Frowning, he glanced at the man's face. It was pale and thin, the eyes rimmed with red and slightly narrowed. His nose and cheeks were angular, the bones prominent and sharp. His mouth had closed and was now pressed into a thin line, the full lips suddenly thin and white. John smiled at him, raising his eyebrows to indicate the lack of response. The man didn't smile back. He just stared at John, his frame nearly trembling. Before John could move away, the man stepped forward harshly, releasing his cup of tea. It sailed to the floor, John's eyes following it as it fell, the lid flying off comically before it had hit even made contact with the ground. Scalding liquid flooded the floor between them, and John marvelled at the sensation of it burning his toes. The pain registered a little later, and he jumped to the side holding the railing for support. The man didn't move. There was tea staining his dark trousers, but he didn't seem to care. He just stared at John. And kept staring. Nervously, John glanced down the corridor. He could run if he had too, he was sure of it. Before he could, the voice spoke.

"John? What the hell are you doing?" the man said, all anger leaving it's voice midway and replaced by something softer, still slightly louder than John would have liked. It hurt his ears, and his head panged with pain. Frowning, John shook his head. Bad idea. His head swum and the man seemed to triple in front of him, a collection of strangers surrounding him. Somewhere, deep in his mind, he was telling himself to turn around and run, to get out of danger, to get out of line of sight. He ignored it – John could handle it by himself.

"I'm sorry – do I know you?" he was fairly sure he didn't. But then again, John Watson wasn't sure of much these days.

The man's face had changed – it looked worried now. Very worried. And he was frowning too, his dark eyebrows making cutting lines on his forehead. John was glad he wasn't the only confused person here.

"Don't be an idiot, John. It's me." The man said. John shook his head again, not catching the joke.

"I'm sorry; I don't think we've met." John was slightly scared now –this man was obviously a bit strange. Could be dangerous, someone whispered in the back of his head.

"John. It's me. You're scaring me." The look of fear was clear on the man's face, more evident in his eyes which seemed to see right through him. He seemed surprised as he said the last words, as if they felt out of place in his mouth. The surprise was quickly extinguished, though, with a look of rage. The man looked around, muttering about doctors and hospitals and IQ's…taking a step away, John decided he'd better go. He didn't like this corridor anyway. It was too bright. His bones felt heavy, and his vision flickered as he moved his head too sharply. He swayed again, taking a deep breath through his nose. The man was walking towards him now. John staggered backwards, grabbing the wall to steady himself.

"It's me, John. It's Sherlock Holmes."

John shook his head, trying to clear it. He wanted the man to shut up. He thought he was going to pass out. He should have never left the room, he should have stayed and asked someone and - another image flashed across his vision – "_The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221b Baker-_"John gasped, clutching at the hand rail. He whimpered slightly, aware of the man grasping his arm and guiding him to the floor and shouting for someone, and saying his name over and over. John slumped against the wall, his brain aching. He wanted it to stop. He couldn't remember who he was. He couldn't remember who this man was: he couldn't remember _anything_.


	2. Chapter 2

Thank you all for the reviews, they really made my day and I'm glad people are interested :) For my first fic, I'm really happy with the response and hope you all continue to enjoy my writing! I'd just like to say, though, that I'm not a doctor and have next to no medical knowledge, so feel free to correct anything I get wrong, or that doesn't seem feasible. On with Chapter 2...

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Sherlock Holmes felt dead. He felt cold and tired and couldn't bear to think about sleeping right now. His head was full of one thing – John. His John. The John that couldn't, no, didn't _want_ to remember who he was. John's brain was like a minefield – one mention of the wrong thing and he'd be overloaded with memories and moments he never knew existed. It had been a while since Sherlock had felt fear like he had last night. When he had seen John walking towards him, he'd been scared. Terrified. Exactly 42 hours before, Sherlock had been standing by John's bedside, gripping his hand and watching his only friend slip into a coma from which no one, not even the best doctors Mycroft could afford, where sure he would rise from. But Sherlock hadn't been scared. He'd known John was strong. Stronger than any man Sherlock had met before – he was a soldier, after all. He'd killed people. He'd saved people. He'd saved Sherlock.

Sitting in the visitors lounge, his head in his hands, Sherlock embraced the pain he was feeling. How could this have happened? How could he, Sherlock Holmes, have allowed this to happen? He took a ragged breath in through his nose, ignoring the painful ache in his skull. All this was his fault – John was lying in a coma, injured and bleeding and not himself, and Sherlock had put him there. _It wasn't your fault, Sherlock. There was nothing you could have done. You saved his life – if you hadn't have acted that quickly, you'd both be dead._ Lestrade's words from earlier drifted through Sherlock's head. They were true. Sherlock **had **saved John's life. But he'd also damaged it, turned John into someone that was very much _not _his John. How long had it been since he'd slept? Sherlock wasn't completely sure. Of course, Sherlock had been injured too – burns all over his body and minor bruising, but he paid them no attention. John was more important.

As of right now, Sherlock was never letting John out of his sight. Since the first case, when John had saved his life, John had become more important to Sherlock than he liked to admit. Never before had he ever needed a friend, or someone to talk too. Now, though, John was the one keeping him in line. Letting out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding, Sherlock stood and swiftly made his way over to a nurse stood behind a nearby desk.

"I need to see him. Can I see him yet?" his tone was pleading, and Sherlock was surprised by how much emotion was intertwined in it. A year before, he would never have shown anyone what he was feeling. Even since John – he cut off the train of thought. He couldn't think about John now. He needed to appear strong, appear in control. He looked at the nurse expectantly, attempting to make his face seem more…_nice._ She smiled sadly at him, looking up from her computer.

"I'm sorry, Mr Holmes, the doctor's still with him. He needs time to rest, without anything disturbing him." She gave a vaguely disapproving look, as though it had been _him _that had _purposely_ woken John from his coma and _told _him to wander the hospital at night. Anger swelled in his chest.

"You don't understand!" Sherlock said, his voice rising, "I _need_ to see him. And don't look at me like this is all my fault – without me, he'd be dead! Would you rather he was dead?" Sherlock wasn't sure why he was saying this, but it felt good to shout at someone, so he carried on. People were staring now. He didn't care.

"Mr Holmes, please, lower your voice, this is a hospital. I really don't think-"Sherlock didn't wait for her to finish her sentence. He turned away, glaring at the cluster of doctors stood a few meters away, stood watching him. Why should he care what the others thought? He wanted to see John. He was about to make his own way to the ward, break into it if he had too, when he heard a familiar _click click _on the floor behind him. He groaned, pivoting to face the one person he really didn't want to encounter right now.

"Ah, Mycroft, what a pleasant surprise," He smiled mockingly, as Mycroft came to stand in front of him, "Putting on weight, I see?"

"Losing it, in fact," Mycroft Holmes crossed his ankles, leaning against his ever-present umbrella. He tilted his head, surveying Sherlock. "Why, dear brother, do you always insist on making a scene?"

"I'm not making a _scene_, Mycroft, I'm merely expressing my distaste at the lack of competent staff at this institute." He heard the nurse tut in indignation at this comment, and he turned and smiled sweetly at her. Turning back to Mycroft, he heard her heels click sharply down the corridor as she hurried away. Mycroft was frowning now, obviously not pleased.

"When you met John Watson, Sherlock, I knew you would change," Sherlock sighed – he really _didn't _want to talk about this now. Mycroft ignored him, and carried on speaking, "I didn't, however, realise he would have this much of an effect on you. Look at yourself, Sherlock, becoming a slave to emotions. And we all know where that leads." Sherlock said nothing, merely glared at Mycroft with as much hate as he could muster. He knew nothing. He had no right to talk about John like that.

"Your point, Mycroft? If you would kindly hurry up – I have somewhere else I need to be."

Mycroft smiled, spinning his umbrella with a flourish, before turning and walking away. Before he reached the exit, he turned back and called over his shoulder.

"Caring is a disadvantage, Sherlock. A chemical defect found on the _losing _side. Do remember that, won't you?" And he was gone. Sherlock frowned, staring at the spot where Mycroft had just been standing. He was wrong, Sherlock knew that. For a time, he had believed that caring was something he was not capable of, something that slowed him down and made him vulnerable. He had been alone, just like Mycroft is now. But he'd found John – or, John had found him. And now he had a reason to perform better, each one of John's little, absent-minded compliments spurring him on to be _better. _Mycroft was bitter and malicious and so very _lonely_. Sherlock smiled – jealousy was not an emotion Sherlock ever imagined the Holmes brothers feeling. He'd felt it when John had returned from one of his ridiculous dates, smiling stupidly and looking too happy for his own good. Or when John smiled at Sally Donovan or laughed at one of Lestrade's jokes. And now Mycroft felt it, and Sherlock felt proud. Proud that he had something that Mycroft did not.

As he pondered this thought, he walked aimlessly through the corridors. He turned corners when he got to them, took right turns when given the choice and just kept walking. He didn't know how long he walked, but when he stopped it wasn't because he tired. He'd reached the Intensive Care Unit. John would be here. His rate picked up, and he half-ran down the hallway. There was no one around. He skidded to stop in front of the room list, rapidly scanning the sheet of paper for John's name. A different ward, then - not 103 now, but 109. Why had they moved him? Had something happened while Mycroft was here? Sherlock's brain jumped straight to the worst scenarios, but he shook them off and kept walking.

"104, 105, 106," he muttered, as he passed each room. All the doors were shut, the lights turned off inside. He picked up the pace, the sound of his shoes hitting the floor echoing around him. He reached the end of the corridor, staring at the room before him. John's room. He took a deep breath, and glanced behind him. He was still alone. The doctors were gone, possibly on their break. There was only so much you could do for a man in a coma, of course. Sherlock reached out a hand, and said a silent prayer before pushing down on the door handle. It was unlocked. He released a breath, and pushed against the door, wincing as it squeaked on its hinges. Peering inside, he groped around for the light switch. Flicking it on, his eyes immediately travelled to the bed situated inside. Sherlock's eyes travelled from John's feet, up his legs and torso (all covered by a thin sheet), and to his face. He stopped, staring at the papery skin, the veins clearly outlined and showing through. John's mouth was slightly open, and his face was peppered with small bruises. His eyes were closed, and there was no sign of movement, only the soft rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. That was the only sign John Watson was actually still alive. Sherlock stepped swiftly inside, closing the door behind him. He wiped his palms on his trousers, feeling them shake a little, and moved hesitantly towards the bed. He stopped, staring at John, before falling into a chair next to him. His breathing was ragged, and sounded harsh and desperate in the silence. The continual, faint beep of the heart monitor did little to reassure him – it sounded so fragile. Sherlock tentatively reached out a hand, placing it on the bed sheet next to John's. He had the sudden urge to grab him by the shoulders and shake him until he woke up. Maybe he could shout in his ear, or grab his violin and play the horrible, scratchy notes that John hated so much. Instead, he carefully brushed his fingertips over the back of John's hand, where it rested by his side. His skin was cold and seemed too thin. Sherlock could almost feel the blood flowing underneath it, could almost hear his faint heartbeat as if it was his own – or maybe it was his own. Blood was rushing in Sherlock ears, as he searched John's face for any sign of recognition at the touch. When none came, Sherlock settled back into the chair, his long arm allowing him to grip John's hand and intertwine their fingers, while still sitting comfortably. He sat for what he thought was hours – his thumb made small circular strokes on John's palm, and his eyes never left his face, always hoping for a blink of the eye, or a twitch of the lips . At some point, Sherlock's grip relaxed along with his mind. He was here, with John. As long as he sat here, no one could get to John, no doctors could inject him with God knows what or starting poking and probing at his wounds like he was some sort of experiment. He'd make sure of that. With a last, long glance Sherlock's eyes slid shut and he allowed sleep to take him.


	3. Chapter 3

Here we are at chapter 3. I'm shocked at the amount of people who are actually interested in this story, so, if you're still here now, thank you! All reviews and comments are welcome, and I hope you enjoy... thank you to the awesome kodkodkittie for betaing :)

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When Sherlock awoke, it was morning. He'd slept all night – strange, he thought. He'd never needed to sleep for this long before, but he had to admit it – he felt infinitely better. I should listen to John more, he decided, when he tells me to rest. At the thoughts of John, he blinked a few times, before stretching his neck and back. The goings-on of last night came flooding back to him, and he stared at his hand where it lay in John's. He liked the feeling, the callous, rough skin of John's well-used hands– he didn't know why he hadn't tried it before. The room was lighter now, and the window had been opened to allow fresh air inside. Sherlock narrowed his eyes, removing his hand gently from John's, and looked around. Someone had been here. Standing up, he made his way over to the door. He was just reaching for the handle when someone on the other side beat him too it. He jumped back as the door swung open, and a petite, brunette nurse entered. She jumped a little when she saw Sherlock, but quickly recovered and straightened her uniform.

"Ah, Mr Holmes, I presume?" she asked, walking over to John's bedside. She reached over and starting checking his vitals and Sherlock frowned at the mention of his name.

"Er, yes, but how-"he started to say, but was cut off as she turned and smiled at him.

"Someone got in touch with us – explained things." She smiled again, and made a few more notes on her clipboard. Sherlock smiled ruefully – that _someone_ obviously had a lot of power. It had to be Mycroft. For once, Sherlock was almost felt gratitude towards his brother. That had to have been the reason why he had made it till morning without being kicked out. One mention of Mycroft's name and the position he held, and the hospital would feel _inclined_ to let him stay. The nurse was busy writing on her clip board, but Sherlock saw her glance at John's sleeping form. She ran her eye along his body, obviously noting the rather well cut muscles beneath the gown and sheet and took maybe slightly longer than necessary running her hands over the bandages wrapped around him. Sherlock cleared his throat, and gave her a soft glare – nothing menacing, just….making his thoughts clear. "The doctor will be here in a minute, Mr Holmes. He'll explain everything too you. Please, make yourself comfortable." She blushed slightly as she said this, before bustling out of the door and back down the hallway. Sherlock smiled, taking his place by John's bed again. They were treating him like royalty…all thanks to Mycroft. Reaching into his trouser pocket he withdrew his phone and, after quickly typing in the password, navigated to his messages. Composing a new one, he sat with the screen blank before him, waiting for inspiration to come to him. What could he say? For a while, he stared at John, thinking of he would say. _Just say thank you,_ he would tell Sherlock, _put the past behind you and say 'oh hi Mycroft, just wanted to say thank you for everything you do,' it's simple Sherlock, you're meant to love your siblings. Yes, I know, me and Harry have had some rough times, but she's still my sister. Where would you be without Mycroft, anyway? He's really not that bad…_ Sherlock's lips curved upwards, half smile and half smirk. Just the sound of John Watson made Sherlock feel wonderful. His voice, though it was rough, and had that silly, high pitched quality to it whenever he laughed (No, giggled. Because that's what John did, he giggled,) was always something Sherlock looked forward to hearing. Even when John was shouting at him for not getting the milk, or leaving severed fingers in his favourite jam, Sherlock loved it. It showed so much emotion, let Sherlock see what John was feeling, no deductions needed. When it said his name, quiet and low, it sent chills up Sherlock's spine. Remembering all this, Sherlock's fingers flew to the keyboard without hesitation. He typed out the message, clicking send without thinking anymore about it. He tucked the phone away.

"You've made me _nice, _John Watson." He whispered, loud enough so only John would hear – and Sherlock really hoped he could. A cough from behind him brought him back to his senses. He turned his head sharply, rising from his seat to confront the intruder.

"It's okay, sit down. I'm only here to explain some things to you." The man was middle aged and balding. Behind his glasses, Sherlock could see his eyes were tired – probably from working late. There was stubble on his chin, showing the last time he shaved was a while ago. Maybe he was growing a beard…maybe he just didn't have time anymore. Resting 2 fingers behind his ear, Sherlock leant on his arm, his foot tapping out a constant rhythm on the tiles floor. He watched the doctor move across the room, noticed how he his uniform was slightly too small, short at the wrists and ankles. His arms were clutching a pile of papers. Probably scans of John's brain going by the thickness of the paper, Sherlock thought. His fingers were stubby and surprisingly well tanned – he must've been on holiday recently…perhaps with his family. When the doctor pulled up a chair on the opposite side of John's bed, Sherlock stopped deducing. He wanted to hear what the doctor had to say.

"So, as I'm sure you're aware, Mr Watson has had some rather severe head trauma." The doctor's voice was calm and clear. He'd probably had to deliver news like this nearly every day of his life.

"Dr Watson," Sherlock replied, leaning forward in his seat, "It's Dr Watson." The doctor looked at him for a moment, before pushing his glasses further up his nose and continuing.

"Yes, well, Dr Watson then. You must be Mr Holmes. I'm Doctor Franklin. I'll be monitoring Dr Watson for the rest of his stay here." Dull, Sherlock thought. Who cares for formalities, when John was _still_ here and _still_ hurting? He merely nodded marginally, signalling that the doctor should continue.

"I have with me some of John's brain scans, if you'd like to take a look. He's had quite a blow to the head, as you very well know. There's a lot of swelling, and will be very tender for him." The doctor handed Sherlock the scans, and he flicked through them, still listening to what the doctor had to say.

"It'd be helpful, Mr Holmes, if you could recount what actually happened that night? It'd be useful for diagnosis, and to determine what sort of time scale we're looking at here." Sherlock tensed. He really didn't want to talk about this. Putting the papers to one side, he sighed and glanced wearily at the doctor. This was for John's benefit, he reminded himself. Without this information, the doctors won't know what to do to save him. He took a deep breath, and then began.

"I assume you know the basics, so I won't go into detail," His voice was cool and distant, "Both me and John had known that Moriarty would come after us. He'd made that clear ever since the first crime we'd solved together. I didn't really take it seriously at first – I was more than happy to have something to not make me bored. The crimes were brilliant, extremely clever. You could almost say I was impressed. But this was Moriarty – and I knew he was dangerous. Before Moriarty, I was _bored._ Bored out of my mind. People don't understand, no one understands that I _need _the cases. Without them, I can't cope. So when Lestrade came to me for help…" Sherlock paused, remembering John's looks of disappointment. They haunted him. _There are lives at stake, Sherlock! Actual human lives. Just so I know, do you care about that at all? _"I was more than happy…finally, something to devote my attention too." His tone was bitter, and the doctor noticed his clenched fist and tense shoulders.

"It was at the pool when I realised just how much of a threat Moriarty posed. He-" his voice broke, and he took a deep breath. He _could _do this, "He had John. He took him, and Moriarty used him against me. He strapped a bomb to his chest and _played _with him. I had the missile plans, I tried to use them to save John, but Moriarty was happy to see me suffer. He had snipers. Then he left – he just walked out. The first thing I did was get the bomb off John. I slid it as far as I could, away from us both. But I think we both knew it couldn't be that easy – when Moriarty returned, I didn't have time to formulate a plan. Moriarty had killed enough people already. I had a gun with me," Yes, it was John's, Sherlock thought. John had saved him _again_. "John was stood next to me, and I had to get him to safety, he was the priority. I looked at him, and he knew what I was going to do." Sherlock smiled, remembering the look on John's face – it was the same face he used when he shouted at Sherlock, when he got annoyed and 'Needed some air'. Sherlock loved that face. When he'd seen it there, though…he hadn't loved it then. The reality of their predicament had become clearer to both men. They could die – it was simple, really. Sherlock had one chance, to save John. And to save himself.

"I took the gun. I shot the bomb." As he said this, the doctor raised his eyebrows. It was hard to believe either man had survived…

"My reaction was immediate – I grabbed John, and hurled him into the pool. His head hit the side before he went under. The sound it made…the sound was horrific. For a moment, I thought I'd killed him. I expected to see fragments of skull floating in the water by his body. I didn't have time to check. When John went under, I dived in after him. I'd already felt the heat burn my skin, I'd felt the shards of glass and brick pierce my body but all that mattered was John, was getting him to safety. I don't know what happened to Moriarty, or to the snipers. I was deafened by the sound, temporarily blinded by the heat and light of the explosion…" Sherlock trailed off, looking at Dr Franklin, who stared back. This man was damaged, the doctor thought. Damaged in the mind, that brilliant mind that worked like a machine, never stopping.

"Mr Holmes. I cannot guarantee that Dr Watson will be the same when he wakes. Amnesia, it's a difficult thing to work with…you never know exactly what's going to happen. We have no way of knowing if his memory will come back. He's sedated at the moment, for his own safety. And for yours." Doctor Franklin glanced at Sherlock. He was staring intently at John's face, as if his gaze would wake him. John wouldn't hurt him, Sherlock thought. He was _John._ John, brilliant John, who never failed to make Sherlock into a better person – he had given him a heart, given him a _purpose._ Sherlock's throat closed up and he choked a little as he realised the truth – John might not remember him. Sherlock Holmes would disappear from his life just as quickly as he'd entered it. He'd be alone again - Holmes without his Watson.


	4. Chapter 4

And here's Chapter 4 - hope you enjoy! Reviews and comments are always welcome.

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When they woke John up, Sherlock wasn't there. He'd returned home to 221b, mainly to change, shower and collect a few essential items that he'd need for the stay. Again, Mycroft had pulled some strings and Sherlock was now allowed a spot sleeping at the hospital. There had been no mention of the text message. Sherlock had wanted to protect John – Moriarty had a web of connections, all at his disposal. It was highly unlikely the threat was gone, and Sherlock wasn't taking any risks. It had been 2 days since Sherlock's discussion with Doctor Franklin and, after many heated debates and insistence on Sherlock's part, they had decided to cease keeping John sedated. To Sherlock's joy, John was ready to be woken up, and to begin his rehabilitation. Rushing up the stairs at Baker Street, Sherlock thought about how he was going to handle this. What would he say? He wasn't usually short of words, but when it came to John he wanted things to be perfect. How would John react? Would he remember anything? 'Stop thinking about it,' Sherlock told himself, 'you need to stop worrying.' Clutching his violin case, extra scarfs and his laptop, Sherlock leapt back down to the stairs. Every moment more he spent here was another moment away from John. He needed to hurry. He took a last look at the door to 221b, before racing out the door.

"Taxi!" he called, flinging an arm out and glancing frantically up and down the busy road. Shifting the goods in his arms, he wrenched open the door and hopped inside. His mind was racing – fear, anxiousness and even excitement whirled through his head.

"The hospital, please, as quickly as you can." He said, getting an odd look from the cabbie.

"Right you are." Came a gruff reply, and the cab took off down the road. As they drove, Sherlock's fingers tapped rapidly against the arm rest and his knees bounced with energy. The cabbie eyed him suspiciously.

"In a hurry, mate?" he asked, frowning a little at the crazy look in Sherlock's eyes. The only reply was a gruff grunt and small nod of recognition. The cabbie sighed, and stopped trying to make conversation. A few minutes of tense silence later, and Sherlock was leaping out of the door and haphazardly throwing a £50 note at the driver.

"Keep the change!" he called, before hurrying through the entrance doors. The cabbie stared after him, and rapidly pocketed the money, before driving away. Inside the hospital, Sherlock more or less ran through the corridors, getting some strange glances from patients and staff alike.

"Watch it!" one nurse cried as Sherlock barrelled passed her, paying no attention to the piles of paper that spilled from her hands. Maybe he should have stopped and apologised, but at that moment, all Sherlock could think of was John. Of hearing John's voice. Of helping him remember _everything_. The doctor had said that was possible. With the right encouragement, John could make a full recovery and regain all his memories. He'd heal, and Sherlock would heal with him. Sherlock had researched it all, multiple times; he had to be sure it could work. He'd sat for hours, scouring his phone for all the information he could gather, before filing it away in his Mind Palace, down the corridor he dedicated to John. Everything to do with John was stored there, and it was the one place Sherlock felt completely comfortable. He'd go there, sometimes, and sit and replay conversations between the two of them, or flick through images of John he'd gathered over the time he'd known him. The room containing all the information on memory loss was big, cold and crammed full of facts. It wasn't a pleasant part of the Mind Palace, Sherlock knew, but if it could help John then he'd go through with it. Rounding a corner, Sherlock quickly read the sign above the door, before pushing his way into the Intensive Care Unit. He slowed to a walk, trying to calm his breathing. He brushed his hair out of his eyes, still damp from his lighting quick shower, and wandered towards John's rooms. As he reached it, Dr Franklin was just exiting.

"Ah, Sherlock, you're just in time." He smiled genuinely, sticking his hand out. Sherlock grasped it, shaking it quickly, hoping his palms didn't feel obviously clammy.

"Has something happened?" Sherlock asked, glancing to the clock a little further down the corridor. 2:37pm – he'd been 40 minutes. Too long. The doctor chuckled slightly, noticing the panic that had bloomed on Sherlock's face.

"No, nothing's happened. We've removed the sedatives from Dr Watson's drip; we're just waiting for him to wake up. You can go in, if you like, the nurses are just finishing up I think…" Sherlock was already moving into the room, pushing aside Dr Franklin and striding towards John's bed. He dumped his things on the chair, before crouching down next to John's face. He tilted his head to side, eyeing John's face for signs of movement. While his face was still pale, it not as papery as before, and had a lot more colour when compared to the day before. Sherlock could almost imagine a small blush creeping across his cheeks, as he'd seen various times before. _I'm not his date…We're not a couple…_ Sherlock smiled. Whereas he never had a problem with what others thought of their relationship, John always seemed protective over things concerning his (Sherlock cleared his throat) sex life. It had never bothered Sherlock before, and he'd learned not to be offended by it. He stood quickly, stretching his arms above his head, before bending down to scrutinize John's wounds. They were burns, mainly, with a few cuts from where shrapnel had sliced through his skin. They were bandaged up now, and had visibly just been cleaned. Lifting the sheet that covered John's body, Sherlock slipped his hand under it and ran his palm along John's chest, feeling for the injuries. Lightly and gently, he ran his fingertips along John's neck, feeling the pulse, before carefully brushing away his hair, to assess the healing head wound. He heard a giggle behind him, and turned slightly to see 2 nurses looking at him curiously. He frowned at them, and they quickly left, whispering quietly to themselves. He settled back into the chair, resting his violin case on his lap. His fingers steepled under his chin, and he gazed at John's sleeping form. What did people find so strange about friendship? Until John, friendship had been something Sherlock had been willing to live without. He had even been happy to be without it. He found now, however, that when faced with the reality of not having this companionship he felt fear. Not having John…it was something Sherlock did not want to think about. As he sat, his fingers twitched and flexed of their own accord. He sighed, reaching down to undo the clasps on the violin case. Withdrawing it, he once again revelled in the smoothness of the wood, and instantly calmed as he plucked the first notes. He took out his bow, adding a little more resin before placing the violin under his chin. Inhaling, he started to play. The notes flowed off the bow with ease, resonating around the room. Sherlock closed his eyes, letting the melody wash over him. He was thankful for the closed door; he didn't want anyone else to hear this one. This was a new piece, one he'd composed in the days leading up to The Pool. He remembered John's face when Sherlock played, his smile wide and his eyes glowing with what Sherlock could only think of as _pride._ It gave him a wonderful feeling, to have someone to play for and who would appreciate the music. It was as big a part of his life as the crimes were. A few minutes into the song, and the tune slowed and morphed into something altogether more familiar. Sherlock smiled, his eyes opening to see John's face. As the bow cruised along each string, Sherlock was hit by a flood of memories. He remembered composing this song – it was the night of The Study in Pink case, and both he and John had been sat at home nursing rather full stomachs. They had been to get a Chinese, before making their way slowly back to 221b, and settling down for an extremely ordinary evening. John had talked about Afghanistan, about his wound, and Sherlock had listened while memorising the contours of his face. After John had gone to bed, Sherlock had sat in his chair by the fireplace and evaluated the day. John Watson, he had thought, had turned out to be far from ordinary. Sherlock had smiled, a sort of childish excitement seeping into his veins – he could have a friend. He had taken the violin into his hands and composed this very song he sat playing today.

As the soft notes swelled with volume, he pretended he could hear the sound of John's voice, praising his deductions and muttering small nothings into the tense air that surrounded each of their arguments. His eyes drifted half shut and he let the sounds engulf him. At some point, he heard someone enter the room, but he paid them no attention. They left soon after, and Sherlock paused in his playing to look around the room. His arm ached slightly, but it didn't bother him – he was used to prolonged playing, it helped him think. He looked back at John – there was no difference. Sherlock wondered if he could hear the music…could he hear what Sherlock was saying? There was no proof that sedated people were aware of things going on around them, but that didn't mean they couldn't. It was unusual for Sherlock to believe in something that didn't have proof to back it up, but this wasn't just any ordinary superstition, it was as though he needed to believe that John could hear him, even if he was still under sedation. Sherlock shifted closer to the edge of his seat, resting his knees against the frame of the bed.

"John Watson," he whispered, moving his mouth to John's ear, "I think you need to wake up now. I'm lost without my blogger." Taking up his violin, eyes closed, lips curved into a smile, he continued John's song. The notes lifted him, the hairs on his neck and arms prickling from the resonance and depth of the song. He drew out the last note, a long Bb, using as much of the bow as he could. After 8 long beats, Sherlock removed the bow from the strings and placed the violin on John's bed – maybe John couldn't hear him after all. He moved away from the bed, standing up with a huff. 'Stupid,' he thought, 'nothing but a waste of time.' He let his fingers drag across John's hand, which rested near the edge of the bed. The skin was warm and Sherlock lingered there for longer than really necessary. He was about to move away, when something made him pause. Scanning John's face, he noticed a flicker under his eyelids. His imagination? Sherlock didn't think so. He breathed out sharply.

"John?" he whispered, moving closer, his nose almost brushing John's cheek. His hand still rested on John's, and he held his breath as he waited for a response. This was okay, he thought, John wouldn't mind him being this close. They were friends, after all. For a long moment, Sherlock feared he really _had_ imagined it. Then, ever so lightly, he felt something brush his fingers. Sherlock's mouth opened in surprise, as he felt John's fingers twitch in response, and he squeezed back. The flickering of John's eyes was becoming quicker, and more prominent, and Sherlock felt a rush of excitement.

"Doctor Franklin!" he called, not taking his eyes of John's face, not wanting to miss anything. John was waking up. Small signs, but they were there. A small gasp of breath escaped John's lips, and Sherlock nearly laughed with relief. John was going to be okay – Sherlock was sure of it.


	5. Chapter 5

So, this is mainly a filler chapter, just to explain some stuff about what's happening to John. It's a bit shorter than the others, as I was having some writers block... hopefully the next chapter will be better :) I have no medical knowledge what so ever, so sorry if it's a bit inaccurate. Just go with it, and feel free to correct me...

* * *

"Tell me, Mr Watson, exactly how much can you remember?"

John was seated in a small office, bare and sparsely decorated with simple furniture and dull, cream walls,accompanied by Dr Franklin. They'd had this conversation before, and it always started the same way: 'how much do you remember?' and 'how are you feeling?'. John always answered in kind, short and blunt with next to no cleared his throat, blinking a few times, and adjusted his grip on the mug of tea in his hand. It was warm and bitter, just how he preferred it. It was strange, really – no one at this hospital knew how he liked his tea. Yet here it was; the perfect cup. John shook his head, looking up from the gentle twists of steam rising off the surface that dissipated at around eye level.

"More than before." He remarked, his voice calm, as if nothing had changed. He trusted Dr Franklin – the man had been with him since he awoke, checking and assessing all aspects of John's health, while keeping a suitable distance. A friend, someone to rely on, but not an invasion of privacy as was common with other patients: something John was extremely grateful for. The doctor smiled, and spoke gently.

"You were a doctor as well, you know. A brilliant one, at that. I heard stories about what you achieved back in Afghanistan. Incredible stuff. Do you remember anything of that?" Dr Franklin, despite the smile, looked slightly nervous. He was obviously anticipating John's reaction, and had noted the twitch John's leg gave at the mention of the country he'd nearly died in. _This was new_, John thought to himself. The doctor had never seemed eager to tell him anything about his past before…

"Yes, I Barts, wasn't it? I remember studying there, before going to war." Pausing again, John pushed at blockades in his mind in an attempt to weaken their strength: no such luck. "I came back, though, didn't I? To London, and Barts, after the war. After I lost my leg…why, though?" John paused, the question bitter on his tongue. He knew the answer, somewhere someone was screaming at him to just _remember_.He watched as Dr Franklin wrote something down on his file, pushing the way the internal racket.

"Retrograde?" John asked, ignoring the lack of an answer to his question, and Franklin looked up in surprise. Smiling sadly, he placed his pen on the desk, and rested his elbows on the table. He looked at John over the top of his glasses, amusement evident in his eyes.

"You can read my writing upside down." He replied, a statement not a question. John just tilted his head.

"What is it?"

Franklin sighed, pushing John's file aside. "It's quite common, really. You would have known a lot about it once. Probably came across it a few times. You're sure you don't remember?"

Racking his brains, John gazed at the doctor's book shelf, deep in thought. It was there, right in the back corner of his mind. Shaking his head, he sighed. _Not yet, _he thought, _take break from remembering._ The past few hours had been an explosion of memories, each new one hitting him with renewed images had triggered at minor things, like the sound of someone's laughter or a word, something that linked to his past – anything that reminded him of before. . John sighed internally, his fingernails tapping out an incessant rhythm on the porcelain in his hand. He was glad he was remembering – it was just so exhausting. John felt constantly drained, his mind teetering on the edge of sleep even when he felt wide awake. Lying in bed, listening to nurses idle chatter outside of his ward, and it would hit him like a train, full speed ahead. Acosted with memories, fragments of lost conversations or brief feelings of anger or contentment all connected to shifted awkwardly in his chair, giving Dr Franklin the opportunity to continue.

"There a quite a few types of amnesia, caused by physical or psychological reasons. In your case, John, it's physical. The blow to your head…it caused quite a lot of damage. Not just injuries though…" John knew exactly what he meant. It was a strange feeling, as if his brain had blocked off all memories connecting to the 'accident'. They were scattered around his head, abandoned in distant corners that were never explored. Slowly though, they were beginning to come back to him.

The doctor continued, "Retrograde amnesia is the best sort to have." At this, both men smiled ruefully, and exchanged a glance which calmed John's nerves and relaxed the muscles he hadn't known had been tensed.. "It allows you to recall things from your past – your childhood, time at university, time as a young adult: things like that. You fail to, however, remember things in your recent past." Franklin paused for breath and shuffled the papers on his desk, before continuing. "Like the accident, for example -that happened only a short time ago, yet you remember nearly nothing about it. Incredible, really, that your brain could so easily block out all things connected to it… more importantly, though, is the knowledge that it's curable. Over time, John, you will remember everything." John inhaled deeply, the warmth of his drink doing nothing to calm the emotions bubbling inside him. It was a strange prospect, the ability to remember it all again.

"How long do you think it'll be? Before I recover, I mean?" John's voice was controlled, neutral, but underlying tones of hope were buried underneath the cool demeanour. Franklin frowned, glancing wearily at his watch, before interlocking his fingers on the desk in front of him.

"I couldn't tell you, John. It's up to you, really – as quickly as your brain allows. With the right encouragement…" he shook his head, scratching at the back of his neck somewhat awkwardly. "I meant to ask you," he continued, "Do you have a place to stay? We're discharging you today – we wouldn't usually do this with patients with similar conditions, but you don't seem to pose any threat to yourself, or anyone else."John smiled slightly at this, and glanced wearily out of the window. The London sky was dimming, the sun sinking low behind the cloud cover, silhouetting the skyline with murky orange."I'm really quite impressed with how much you remember. You're advancing quicker than I've seen anyone else before.

Franklin's words pulled John from his observations and he stared at the doctor for a moment. Accident - why did he call it an _accident_? John may have amnesia, but he wasn't stupid - nothing like this could have happened by accident. He wasn't sure how, exactly, but there was more to his…_story_ than people were letting on. He took another sip of tea, which was cooling rapidly in his hands, and leaned back in his chair as his mind worked. Dr Franklin raised his eyebrows, noticing the faraway look John's eyes had taken on.

"Now you mention it, I don't." John started, pulled back to the question at hand. "I'd thought maybe my sister, but…" He trailed off, clearing his throat. The doctor had informed Harry of his predicament but she'd showed no signs of support – only a quick 'get well soon' over the crackly hospital phone, to the backing track of pub noise and raucous laughter. John rolled his shoulder, ignoring the twitch it gave at the thought of his sister.

"I understand," Franklin said quickly, before the room could descend into silence. "We could sort something out for you, if you prefer? Get you some accommodation nearby?"

"Yes, that'd be lovely, thank you." John replied politely, shifting forward in his seat to place his half-empty mug on the desk, before heaving himself up and out of the chair. Dr Franklin was already up, walking heavily to the office door and holding it open for him.. John followed, his movements slow and deliberate, but he paused when he reached Franklin. Something else was playing on his mind.

"I was wondering…" he began, clasping his hands in front of him, "I had a place in mind to I, uh, remembered the other night." Dr Franklin raised his eyebrows, mimicking John's serious stance.

"Oh? Well, we could look into it for you, if you like. It's easier for us to locate somewhere suitable, of course, and easier to aquire but I'm sure something could be arranged. Depending on accessibility, of course…" He paused, waiting for John to continue. The man just stood, throat bobbing anxiously. "Where were you thinking of?"

John cleared his throat, feeling a twinge in the back of his mind at the memory. He spoke slowly, testing the words in his mouth, achingly familiar yet alien to him."Baker Street. 221b, Baker Street."


	6. Chapter 6

Bit of a short chapter, but whatever :) If anyone has any requests for what they want to happen next, I'm happy to take some ideas to incorporate into it.

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"This is ridiculous, Mrs Hudson. How could they do this?"

"I'm sure they had their reasons, dear. It was probably for the best."

Sherlock was lain out on a sofa at 221b, his long limbs stretched over the arm rests. He scowled at the ceiling, folding his arms harshly across his chest, a childish pout forming on his lips. He heard Mrs Hudson sigh as she moved some papers off the coffee table, and wandered away into the kitchen.

"I'll make you a cup of tea, Sherlock, that'll take your mind of things."

"Nothing can take my mind of this, Mrs Hudson! Don't you understand? This is _John_ we're talking about! M-our John!" he faltered, nearly saying 'my' instead of 'our', but the outburst was enough to make Mrs Hudson turn away, flapping her hands at him as she walked out of the flat.

"I don't know why I bother, I really don't!" she muttered, and Sherlock tugged his bathrobe tighter around him, rolling over so he faced the wall. He curled himself up into a foetal position, and hugged his arms around himself. Hateful. It was all so hateful. He buried his face into the cool leather, chin brushing against his pajama-clad knees. After John had woken up, Sherlock had been beside himself. Much to the disapproval of the nurses and doctors, he'd refused to go home. They'dcarted John off to another section of the hospital, and Sherlock had been left alone in the ward sitting there for hours, waiting for John to come back - waiting to see his face again. When Dr Franklin had appeared, around 3 hours later, Sherlock had demanded to see John. He'd argued and shouted and very nearly punched the man, until Mycroft had been called to retrieve him. John was fine, he'd been assured, but for the wellbeing of John's mind, he was not allowed to see Sherlock. _It'll bring back too many memories, too quickly_ Franklin had said. _It could hurt him._ So Sherlock had allowed Mycroft to drag him to his car, throw him inside, and order the driver to take them silently back to Baker Street. Not one word had been spoken. Sherlock had slumped in the seat, his arms folded and legs crossed, and stared resolutely out of the window for the entire journey. He'd heard Mycroft tut loudly at him, and he could imagine the disapproving looks being flashed his way, but he ignored them wholeheartedly. London had passed by in a blur of lights and shop windows, but Sherlock hadn't really payed attention. It wasn't the same anymore…when Sherlock walked the streets of London, it felt different without John beside him. It felt empty.

Crunched up on the sofa, he thought about the different ways in which it would be possible to stage a murder at a hospital. Fairly easy, he decided, twisting his long fingers into the soft fabric of his dressing gown. So many needles and wires and sharp objects floating about unattended, he wouldn't be surprised if someone as stupid as Anderson could pull it off…

_"I'm sorry, Mr Holmes, but it's for the best. Seeing you could damage him – You don't _want _him hurt, do you?" _

_"I don't see the problem – the whole point of this is for John to get his memories back! I can help him do that!"_

_"We can't allow it, not yet. His mind is still weak. Any mention of you could completely ruin all the progress he's made so far."_

_"John's mind is not weak! It's stronger than any normal mind I've ever come across! Stronger than yours, certainly."_

_"You saw the effect it had on him last time – and that was when he wasn't even aware it was you. Do you want that to happen again?"_

_"He'd only just woken up, he was in shock. You cannot possibly prove-"_

_"Mr Holmes, I am a doctor: I know what is best for a patient, and right not, it's not you. You are not the cure John needs. His mind is a time bomb. One wrong move and it'll destroy everything we've been working at."_

_"A strange choice of words, don't you think, doctor? I have to remind you - John is a doctor too. A better one than you, I have to say. Have you asked him what _he_ thinks?"_

_"You know we cannot do that, Mr Holmes. Please, this would be a lot easier if you were to take my word as gospel."_

_"I thought Mycroft would have done better. This hospital is a joke! The staff have no competency, and the doctors seem bent of denying patients of what they really need."_

_"Sherlock, really-"_

_"John does not need you right now, Sherlock. He doesn't even remember who you are. Do you not understand that? You're alone again, Sherlock. You put John in danger, put him right in Moriarty's firing line, and here you blaming it all on someone else."_

_"Mycroft. What a pleasure it is to see you." "Mr Holmes, I really don't think Sherlock should be allowed-"_

_"You may go, Dr Franklin. I can handle dear Sherlock, here."_

_"Right. Of course. I'll just…leave, then..."_

_ "And what if he starts to remember, Sherlock? He'd remember it was you who put him in hospital, you who nearly destroyed his future. You who nearly killed him."_

_"I saved his life! I didn't-"_

_"And look where he is now. Very effective of you, as always, Sherlock. I told you once, that caring was a disadvantage. It seems, now, that really has become the truth. You cared too much for John Watson, and it's killed him. He's a different person, now, Sherlock. I think we both know it's time for you to move on…"_

Sherlock woke gasping, a cold sweat coating his skin. He pushed himself up off the sofa, and staggered to the bathroom down the hall, swallowing thickly. He reached the mirror, and hunched over the sink, breathing heavily. His hair was plastered to his forehead; the dark curls a messy mass of sweat and grime, his skin was sallow, and had a nasty grey pallor to it. His hands were shaking, and he tried to breath normally, but his head was pounding and his stomach was rolling. He needed to get back in control.

"I didn't kill John Watson," He said to himself firmly. "John's still alive, he's still here."

_Is he though? _Sherlock jumped, the voice whispering slyly in his ear. _We both know he's a different person…not the John Watson you used to know…_

"I didn't do this to him. I-I tried to save him!"

_Exactly…TRIED to save him. You tried too hard. You tried to change him, mould him into someone you wanted him to be. You dragged him along on your little adventures, and here he is today. No good could ever have come from it._

"But I helped him! I made him better. His stick, that was me, I was the one who made him lose his walking stick and it-"

_That was only the beginning, though. After that, you became addicted. You became addicted to John Watson. You'd never had a friend before, had you? And along came dear Dr Watson, no family, no friends and nowhere to go. You just couldn't help yourself – another little experiment, for the great Sherlock Holmes…_

Sherlock banged his fists on the porcelain sink, shaking his head violently. It was wrong. The voice was wrong. Wasn't it? Sherlock looked up, gazing with horror in the mirror. He'd done this. He'd done this to John. His throat clenched, and he his eyes filled with burning liquid, blurring his vision and stinging the back of his throat. John wasn't an experiment. John had wanted to change; he'd wanted to become better. John had stayed of his own accord. Hadn't he? His reflection stared back at him, accusation swirling in its eyes. It smiled mockingly at him, and Sherlock staggered backwards, falling against the shower. A broken sob escaping his chest. He slid to the floor with a thump, and lay there shaking. It couldn't be true. John couldn't be gone.

_You have to face the truth. John's gone, he's not John anymore. He's forgotten you – in his eyes, you may as well be dead._


	7. Chapter 7

Mrs Hudson found Sherlock about an hour later. It was quiet in 221b, and when she came round with a bin bag to help clean up, she wasn't surprised to find it empty.

"Sherlock!" she called up the stairs to his room, before bustling away to evaluate the extent of the mess. Sherlock had taken residence in John's room after the accident, locking himself away and closing the door behind him.

He'd come home from the hospital, the night of the explosion (she hadn't known it then, though), and walked silently to his room where he gathered together his dressing gown, slippers and violin. She'd asked if he was okay and wondered what on earth was going on, but he'd ignored her and slipped silently up the stairs and into John's room. She hadn't questioned it, of course – this was Sherlock, after all. But when Sherlock hadn't emerged for dinner, or for breakfast the next morning, she'd started to worry. He'd looked ill, and extremely worried. And John hadn't come back either. After her daily soother and a nice cup of tea, she'd wandered upstairs to check on him.

"Yoo-hoo!" she'd called, knocking twice on the front door, which was left wide open. No one was about. Frowning, she'd walked around a bit more, tidying up a few stray mugs of tea and something that looked suspiciously like human teeth.

"Sherlock! Do you want a cup of tea? Does John want one too?" she'd called up the stairs, ignoring the horrid smell that was emanating from the fridge. She didn't think she'd venture there… But when Sherlock didn't reply, Mrs Hudson had thought it was about time she knocked some sense into him. Walking to the bottom of the stairs, she had manoeuvred herself over a pile of papers, and walked up.

"Sherlock, dear, it's nearly lunch time. I know you don't eat much, but John's probably hungry. Where is John anyway? He's usually up by now…then again, so are you," She'd paused outside the door, listening for a response. "I know you boys probably had a late one, but you looked a bit pale last night." Still no response.

"Sherlock, is everything alright?" another pause. Edging closer to the door, she'd heard a loud thump resonate from inside the room.

"I'm coming in, dear." Mrs Hudson had reached for the handle and twisted, finding it unlocked.

"Really Sherlock, it's nearly 1! I thought you'd better be getting-"she'd trailed off, staring at the floor next to John's bed. Sherlock had been curled up on the rug, rocking slightly, his chest heaving and dry, racking sobs dragging from his throat. The sheets on the bed were tangled and twisted, so he'd obviously slept here over night. Although, from the looks on Sherlock's face, it hadn't been a comfortable night's sleep.

"Sherlock, dear, what on earth's the matter?" She'd asked, crouching down beside him. He'd turned then, and raised himself into a sitting position. His hair had been matted with sweat, his skin pale and blotchy. His eyes were raw and red, and dark shadows hung under them. His clothes, the same from last night, were crumpled and clung to his body. Not sleeping then, Mrs Hudson decided.

"Where's John, dear? I thought you two were, you know-" she'd gestured awkwardly to the bed with her hands, and trailed off. It wasn't a big surprise to her, really. There were all sorts living around here…

"He's not here." Sherlock had replied, his voice hoarse and broken from crying. "He's gone, Mrs Hudson." Another sob had escaped from his mouth, and tears were flowing down his pale cheeks. At that moment, Mrs Hudson had not known what to do. Never before had she seen Sherlock in such a state, not making any sense, and _crying _for heaven's sake! She'd never seen Sherlock cry – it was a horrible sight. And as for John…well, she was sure they'd had another domestic. But she knew how to treat those, so she'd pulled Sherlock up, got him downstairs and given him a nice, hot cup of tea. He'd sat himself in John's chair. Another sign that something was universally wrong. She'd asked for an explanation, and it seemed Sherlock was willing talk. So he told her everything. And she'd realised this was not just another one of their domestics.

So when Mrs Hudson was confronted with a missing Sherlock, she didn't get involved. It was his business how he coped with John's…absence, and as much as Mrs Hudson wanted to help, there was only so much you could do when it came to Sherlock. He was lost without John, she decided, like a child. It worried her, of course, that Sherlock could so easily become unhinged when faced with a no-John scenario. But she left him too it, and focused on tidying up the mess that had materialised on the kitchen table. After a nice cup of tea, and a quick flick through the television, she decided to pop to the bathroom. Sherlock won't mind, she thought to herself, before setting down her cuppa and walking quietly down the hallway. What she found when she entered, though, truly frightened her. Sherlock was sat, his back against the shower, hands clamped over his ears. He was rocking slightly, and shaking his every so often, as if clearing his head of unwanted noise. She stood in the door way for a few seconds, mouth open slightly, before recovering from the shock and taking action. She approached carefully, acting as though Sherlock was a small child. He was, really. Nothing more than a damaged child trapped in an adult's body.

"Sherlock," she said quietly, reaching out to carefully stroke his hair, "Come on, dear, let's get you up." He allowed her to haul him up, hands still clamped resolutely over his ears. She guided him slowly to the living room, before depositing him in John's armchair. He released his ears, and drew his knees up to his chest. Resting his chin on his knees, he sighed quietly.

"I've killed him, Mrs Hudson. I've killed John." Mrs Hudson frowned, the corners of her mouth twisting downwards.

"Of course you haven't, Sherlock. Why would you think such a thing?"

"I didn't think it. But now I do. I've killed him." She left him sat for a moment, before walking into the kitchen and returning with a packet of tissues and cup of warm tea.

"John's not dead, Sherlock. You know that. _You_ told me that."

"I know, he's not _dead. _He's not the same, though. He doesn't know who we are." He took the cup and, to her relief, began sipping at it gently. There was more colour in his cheeks, and his eyes look brighter. The sobbing had subsided, as had the rocking, and Mrs Hudson was glad to see he was recovering.

"I don't know what's happening to me, Mrs Hudson. I feel _broken_." Sherlock looked at her then, really expecting an answer. She smiled.

"You miss him, Sherlock, that's all it is. I know you two were close. But he'll be fine, I'm sure. There's nothing to worry about. Now, I'm off to make a few cakes, and I need to grab you some more milk, is there anything else you want, dear?" Sherlock shook his head, and looked back out of the window. Mrs Hudson waited a moment, debating whether to stay or not. He certainly looked much better…but what if he had another turn for the worst? No, Sherlock was capable of surviving alone…he'd done so for years, long she'd met him. As she left the flat, and was walking down the stairs, she heard a knock at the main door. She walked over to it, and peered through the peek hole, before opening it up.

"Can I help you?" she asked politely. She hadn't seen this man before – a friend of John's, maybe?

"Yes, I'm here to see Mr Holmes." The man smiled back, and looked expectantly at Mrs Hudson, who stared back.

"Sherlock? You're one of his friends?"

"No, I'm afraid not. Although, I don't hate the man. I just need a quick word." She nodded, and stepped aside to allow him in.

"He's just upstairs. In the living room, I think. At least, that's where I left him. Can I make you some tea? I don't really think Sherlock's up to it, Mr - "

"Franklin. And no, no, I'm quite alright thank you. I can find my own way up." He smiled again, and nodded in thanks, before turning and hopping up the stairs 2 at a time. Mrs Hudson sighed and shook her head. Sherlock had brought havoc upon her life, from the first moment he walked in…murderers, policemen and homeless people entering the flat at all hours of the day.

"Another soother, I think…" she thought to herself, before returning to her flat, and locking the door tightly behind her.

Dr Franklin reached the door to 221b, but didn't bother to knock before entering.

"Mr Holmes." He called, announcing his presence, but didn't see the man anywhere here. He was about to call again, when Sherlock emerged from behind a rather large armchair.

"Dr Franklin." The reply was curt, his hands clasped in front of him, and there was a look of mild disgust on Sherlock's features. If Franklin hadn't have known better, he'd have thought Sherlock was okay. But the red, puffy eyes and shaking hands gave him away.

"Yes, hello. Sorry for the intrusion. I have some fairly good news." He was eager to break it to Sherlock. He felt sorry for the man, truly sorry, but Sherlock was stubborn, and brought most of his grief upon himself. Maybe this, though, would finally cheer him up.

"Good news? I highly doubt it, doctor. No good news comes from people like you." Sherlock turned away again, swallowing hard. He had to keep his emotions under control. It wouldn't be wise to open up to some like Dr Franklin. Mrs Hudson, yes – she was harmless.

"Well, I don't know, I think you might be surprised."

"Go on, then. I have an experiment to tend to, and if you don't have any spare fingers to give me, I'd very much like some peace and quiet."

Dr Franklin smiled, and chuckled slightly. Sherlock turned to him, his face mildly curious. Franklin sighed.

"Have a good day, Mr Holmes." Before he left, though, he stopped.

"Oh, I forgot to say. You may want to tidy up a little in here. It's just, I think you may be having guests." He pulled a small wad of paper from his coat pocket, and dropped it deliberately on the table next to him. He tipped his hat in farewell, and wandered back down the stairs. Sherlock stood up immediately, and walked slowly over to the table. He glanced down, the title emblazoned on the front in big, black letters.

They read: "Dr John H Watson – Medical Files and Homecare Guidelines"

Sherlock's face broke into a large grin, splitting his tired face in two. He held the papers up in front of him, inspecting them from all angles, before laughing out loud. John was coming home! He nearly did a little dance, but managed to compose himself. He kept the grin, though. It felt nice, a change from the usual frowns. Sherlock needed a reason to smile. He walked to the window, and watched the doctor hail a cab, and tossed the file into the air, catching it deftly. He was beginning to like Dr Franklin a little more.


	8. Chapter 8

This chapter hasn't been betad yet, as I thought you'd all appreciate an update, as it's been a while since the last chapter :) Any mistakes are to be blamed on me - I'm also working on finishing up a Unilock fic that I started writing a while ago, so the next chapter may be a while away (sorrysorrysorry) Any mistakes you see, please let me know - Enjoy!

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That night - the first in such a long time - Sherlock slept. Tucked up in John's bed, his head buried deep into the pillow, he was truly content. The smell of John was gone, the deep, earthy, rich scent that Sherlock craved, but he still pretended he could smell it when he rubbed his head against the very sheets John used to lay on. The bed was soft, with a large duvet and thick, squishy pillows and it was the only place Sherlock really felt at home. It was a place he'd dreamed of many times, dreams of John, and a place he'd only been to once before (until he'd claimed it as his own after The Accident.) Sherlock remembered that night as if it were yesterday. It brought back a raw pain, one he had very much wanted to forget. He let his mind wander, relaxing into the mattress…

_There was a loud cry from John's room, and the sound of Sherlock's violin playing stopped, listening to the silence that followed. Sherlock face clouded with confusion, and after a long moment of standing and waiting, he began playing again. The tune was quiet, low and melancholy – he didn't want to wake John up. It was about 1am, and there was no way Sherlock could sleep. When on a case, he never gave much thought to his bodily needs, and his mind always seemed to function beyond the average human being. Sleep wasn't necessary. When insomnia set in, Sherlock was happy to sit and play for the majority of the night. He was always cautious, though, of waking John. He knew from personal experience just how angry John got when he hadn't had enough sleep. Sherlock slowed the melody down, ending the song with a long, drawn out G and set the instrument aside. He was about to retire to his chair and think for a while, when he heard another strangled moan coming from John's room. There are 3 choices, here, Sherlock thought: I enter the room and find John in a state of personal…pleasure, I enter the room and find him with one of his ridiculous girlfriends, or I leave him alone and something really has happened. Sherlock hesitated, weighing up the options. He was about to leave it be, when he heard John shouting._

_"I can't reach him!" cried John's voice, breaking and cracking with fear. Not with a girlfriend, then. Sherlock quickly ran to the base of the stairs, skipping up them two at a time. He didn't bother knocking, but thrust open the door with enough force to send it slamming into the wall behind it. Scanning the room, he located John tangled under a heap of sheets and blankets, his head just poking out. Sherlock all but ran over, tugging them down to free him. John gasped as the cold hit him, and woke with a startled gasp. His eyes were wide and full of fear, and they scanned the room as if they were searching for something._

_"John. Calm down, everything's fine." The wild, deranged look was still plastered across John's face, and Sherlock was worried he might scream. Sitting on the bed, Sherlock took John's face between both his hands, his large fingers nearly spanning the whole length. Was this the right thing to do? They were friends - John wouldn't mind..._

_"John. Look at me." Slowly, John's eyes turned to Sherlock's, locking their gazes. Sherlock could visibly see John calming down, and he could feel John's pulse slowing, where his palm touched his neck. John swallowed, before nodding, and pulling out of Sherlock's grip. He let his hands fall to his lap – they felt empty without John._

_"Sorry, Sherlock. Did I-ah-wake you?" John's face was dubious, but a faint ghost of smile appeared on it when he thought about the question._

_"Are you okay?" Sherlock asked. He had a burning desire to hold John's hand – it rested mere centimetres from his, and was still visibly shaking. Instead, he reached around them both and started straightening the pillows, and pulling the duvet up to its proper place. He relished in the feel of John's warmth, emanating from him._

_"Yes, fine thank you," The reply was too rehearsed. Sherlock looked at him, his eyes searching, and John buckled. "Okay, fine, bit not good, okay? I just- couldn't sleep, that's all."_

_"Do you, ah, want to talk about it?" John was extremely surprised by this. Sherlock hadn't really expressed an interest in something like this before. John had had nightmares previously, many of which he knew Sherlock had heard. But, in the mornings, Sherlock had politely looked away and pointedly not mentioned it. Which John was fine with, of course. Now, though, something had changed… Sherlock noticed John's look of disbelief, and pressed his lips into a thin line. _

_"If you don't want to, it's fine. I understand." He moved to get off the bed, but John reached out and placed a hand on his arm to stop him._

_"Sherlock. I didn't mean that. I'm just surprised, that's all." He patted the bed beside him, and Sherlock sat back down with a huff. "You never seemed to want to talk about it before."_

_Sherlock nodded, rubbing his hand along his thigh self-consciously. "I just wanted to help this time." John smiled, a wide, endearing grin that made Sherlock's heart beat a little harder. Here they were, the early hours of the morning, sat on John's bed in John's room, talking about John. For once, Sherlock was happy to be alone with someone. He had always been nervous of people…not with John though. With John, he allowed himself the luxury of enjoyment._

_"So, what happened? Was it Afghanistan again?" I was common knowledge to Sherlock that the war haunted John, so he wasn't surprised to find he dreamt about it. It had scarred John, hardened his mind and his heart. John grunted in approval, and flopped back against the pillows. He rested a forearm against his eyes, shielding his face from Sherlock's view. _

_"Yeah." He muttered. Sherlock wanted him to elaborate, but didn't want to push John too far – he wanted to discover all there was to know about John Watson, to study the way he thought, what he thought about and why. Never before had he had so much interest in a person. People were boring, he knew that from experience. Not John, though. He could talk to John forever. Despite this, he knew emotions played a part as well. The war was a touchy subject for John, very close to his heart but not in a good way. Instead of asking, though, Sherlock just waited, tucking his long legs up onto the bed. They brushed against John's outstretched ones and sent jolts of electricity through his veins. He wasn't sure what these feelings meant, and the fact it was John made it all the more confusing, but he liked them. A lot. He glanced quickly at John, sure that the shiver had been visible. Luckily, John was still hidden under his hands._

_"Do you want to talk about it?" _

_"Not really, no. Sorry, Sherlock, I don't really feel like it right now." The words hit Sherlock like punches, each one colder than the next. Rejection. Something Sherlock had felt a lot before, as a child and even as an adult, but it was more painful when it came from John. Sherlock drew his legs away from John's, moving off the bed. John looked up, obviously sensing Sherlock's disappointment. His face looked –broken. _

_"Wait. Where are you going?" John asked, sitting up himself. He hadn't meant to hurt Sherlock. In fact, he was more than happy to find Sherlock actually did seem to care. It was a nice change from the cold, inhuman exterior._

_"I'll let you sleep," Sherlock replied with a tight smile. All the warmth and concern that had been in his face had vanished, replaced with a distant look of mild interest._

_"I don't want to sleep." Sherlock stiffened, and glanced back at John in surprise._

_"John, really, I don't think-"_

_"Sherlock. Stay, please." It took all of Sherlock's self control not to run and leap back onto the bed. He walked slowly to the empty half, and paused before lying down next to John. This was fine, he told himself. For John, he was just being comforted by a friend. Sherlock didn't think John knew just how different it was for him. He didn't mention it, though, just lay next to John and stared at the ceiling. It was strange, the emotions he was feeling. He hadn't encountered them before – he'd been warned by Mycroft that things like affection would damage him. So he'd never really given them a chance…now though, with John, things were different. _

_"Stop thinking so hard, will you? I can practically hear it." John rolled over to face Sherlock, inches between them. He smiled teasingly, and Sherlock fought the urge touch his face. Just lightly, with the tips of his fingers, the skin rough beneath his-_

_"Sorry." He replied, and hastily rolled away from John. John frowned, the hurt obvious in his eyes – Sherlock didn't want to be close to him, evidently. Sherlock couldn't do this to John. He couldn't pressure him into something John clearly didn't want. They were friends. That was all they were ever going to be. He lay there, silent, untill he heard John sigh and roll over aswell._

_"You always do this, Sherlock. You always shut me out." His tone was tired, as if this was topic he'd thought about for a long time. There was hurt there too, and resignation, as if he'd learnt to accept it. It was true, Sherlock admitted to himself, as much as he didn't want it to be. It was in his nature to turn people away. Whenever people got too close, it was instinct that he cut them down. He couldn't help it._

_"It's who I am, John. Alone is what I have. Alone protects me."_

_"Nope," John replied, anger seeping into his low voice now. Dangerous territory. "Friends protect people, Sherlock. Do you need reminding that you're _not_ alone anymore?"_

_"Am I not alone, John? Tell me, who do I have to protect me?" he was angry too – angry with himself. All he'd wanted to do was cheer John up, care for him a little…he heard John laugh quietly._

_"Do you even realise I'm - you know what, sod this. Sod this." John sat up quickly, his face darkened with anger. Sherlock turned over._

_"What are you doing?"_

_"Get out."_

_"John, I-"_

_"I said get out, Sherlock. Just leave." Sherlock swallowed and licked his lips, that were suddenly extremely dry. This hadn't gone to plan at all. He dutifully got off the bed, taking large steps to the door. John was already there, holding it open for him, his head bowed, eyes staring at the floor. Sherlock stepped outside, but turned and put his arm out to catch the door._

_"John, I'm sorry. I didn't think-" the door slammed in his face, and he heard John stamp angrily back to his bed. Sherlock waited there for a while, just staring at the door. He didn't think there was a way to redeem himself, not at the moment. He left John alone, and trudged back downstairs. He needed to get away, needed some time to think. His mind was reeling at John's words, the accusations and the truth that came with them. His affection towards John was causing both of them pain... grabbing his scalf, and pulling on his long, dark coat, Sherlock fled into the night, alone on the streets of London. _

_When John woke in the morning, Sherlock was gone. He was still fuming, his anger bubbling inside him. The man was impossible. They'd fought before, over stupid things, and Sherlock would usually return within the hour. This time, though, it was different. He'd seen a new side to Sherlock, one that actually cared. John knew Sherlock cared for him, in his own way. Last night, though, he'd actually shown it. The way he'd reacted when they'd accidentally touched – it was confusing, to say the least. But not unwelcome… the hours past:still no sign of Sherlock. The things he'd said though – was it really that easy for Sherlock to forget John was there for him? It had hurt John, pain and loss blosoming inside him. He'd thought Sherlock knew… he slumped in his armchair, staring at his cup of tea. Maybe Sherlock really didn't care. It was probably all just another experiment. John smiled bitterly. For once, John wasn't worried about where Sherlock was. He needed this break away from him. For once, John kind of wished he'd stay away._


	9. Chapter 9

Again, this is sort of a filler chapter, but we get some Mrs Hudson which is nice for a change :) This chapter is unbetad, as the next few will be as well, as my beta is currently really busy. I will update with betad chapters at a later date, but I hope these're not to bad to read. Any mistakes are mine, blame me :)

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"Mrs Hudson!"

The lady in question was alone in her flat downstairs, sipping gently on cup of steaming tea and flicking through the latest paper, when her peaceful morning was rudely interupted. It was quiet in Baker Street, the dregs of nightime being washed away with the influx of noise from the waking city outside. The anguished shout resonated through the air, echoing through the flat and scaring Mrs Hudson out of her wits. She dropped her cup with a clatter, springing from her chair and wincing as the hot beverage spread across the table. She hesitated for a moment, torn between cleaning it up or tending to the shouting man. She decided on the latter.

"Sherlock?!" she called, walking quickly to the stairs and waiting at the bottom. "What on earth's the matter?" There was no reply. Muttering quietly to herself, she swiftly climbed the stairs before pausing at the enterance to 221b. She knocked loudly, ear to the door, but was greeted with silence. Frowning in worry, she grasped the handle and pushed her way into the flat. The living room was empty and, upon inspection, so was the kitchen. That left only one likely place – taking a deep breath, she pushed her way into Sherlock's room. The bed was empty, clean and wellmade: it hadn't been slept in, then, since Mrs Hudson had made it on Tuesday morning. 3 days, and Sherlock hadn't slept at all.

"For goodness sake, Sherlock," she called, storming out of the room and walking back into the kitchen. "What's wrong? And where are you?" She heard footsteps to her left and she pottered over to meet them. Sherlock stood at the top of the stairs leading to _John's_ room, laiden with cleaning products and kitted out in his old bathrobe and a pair of frilly washing up gloves that looked slightly too familiar. Mrs Hudson was dumbfounded.

"Are those my gloves?" she asked, pointing at Sherlock menacingly and taking the stairs slowly. Sherlock shrugged and picked at the hem of his pajamas.

"Maybe. They were in your flat – you weren't using them." He smiled at her innocently, and pushed his way back into the bedroom. Mrs Hudson followed him. Before she even entered the room, the smell hit her. She choked violently, chemical fumes and bleach coating her tongue and stinging her eyes.

"Sherlock," she coughed, squinting, "You're _cleaning?_" He threw himself onto the bed theatrically, lying back with his arms spread-eagle.

"Yes."

"_Cleaning_-cleaning?" Mrs Hudson picked up a bottle of Frebreeze off the floor, placing it back on the bedside table, "This isn't one of your experiments?_"_

Sherlock smiled, his eyes closed and hands steepled under his chin.

"It's an important day, Mrs Hudson." He replied, opening one eye a tiny fraction, and sighing deeply. "I wouldn't expect you to understand." He pulled off each of the cleaning gloves slowly before throwning them to the side theartically. Mrs Hudson frowned at him, recording his movements with mild suspicion – his skin looked healthier than it had in a while, not the sallow, pale colour it had taken to being lately. His eyes seemed brighter, and a little red, but happier none the less and he'd certainly managed to retain some of his _usual_ personality. Naturally, Mrs Hudson was concerned.

"Is this about John, dear?" she asked gently, walking over to the bed and laying a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "Because I know you're upset, and I know how much you cared for him, but really dear, there's no need to start trying to, well, _erase _him."

"What? No! Of course I'm not trying to erase him!" Sherlock's eyes snapped open and he stared at her in disbelief. Leaping from the bed, he stood abruptly and clasped both hands behind his back. "He's not dead, Mrs Hudson." He said bluntly, looking her dead in the eyes. "Stop talking about him as if he's _gone._" Sherlock was proud to say his voice didn't wobble in the slightest. Sadness swam in the landlady's eyes, causing bitterness to rise in Sherlock's throat. He didn't want her pity. Today was meant to be a _happy_, not full of moaning and moping around.

"Sherlock, we need to be rational about this. John's really quite hurt, dear, I don't think you understand that."

"I understand more than anyone," his voice was calm and controlled, no hint of anger or even sadness. Somehow, that was more worrying than any amount of rage could have possibly been. Whatever had changed for him, the older lady thought, it better not have done him a mischief…"You said it yourself, Mrs Hudson – 'He'll be fine, I'm sure', you said. And yes, he will be fine. Because he's coming home." He strode forward, gripping her shoulders and shaking her minutely. She stared at him, eyesbrows raised in confusion and surprise. The detective just rolled his eyes.

"Coming back to Baker Street." He continued, stooping low so their heads were level. He looked at her inquiringly, as an teacher would look at a particularly impossible child. "Home, Mrs Hudson. John Watson." She snapped out of her reviere, giving Sherlock a light slap on the arm.

"Oh, Sherlock, stop it." She said – there was no real venom behind her words, though. Sherlock winked at her. He moved away, returning to full height, and collected the gloves from the floor. Taking up the bottle of airfreshener, he sprayed liberal amounts into the air around him, a small smile highlighting his face. Mrs Hudson watched him for a second, hands on her hips, shaking her head slowly. "Coming home, though? That's wonderful, Sherlock, but how?"

"He wanted to, apparently, and suggested it himself. He couldn't remember much about…before, except for this address."

"Really? Well, it was his home and frankly, I'd be dissapointed if he didn't remember it!" Sherlock nodded absently, eyes far away, and Mrs Hudson could sense that he was drifting. She decided to change the subject.

"It's a good sign," She sighed, wringing her hands together in the silence that followed. "It shows he's getting better, I suppose. Although, I doubt we can get our hopes up. From what you said the other day, it sounded as if he'd really forgotten us! I had a friend once, I'd known her for years, we never spent time apart. She moved away, to Devon I think and forgot all about me! I saw her the other week, doing chairty work of some kind up in London, never even gave me a second glance! I suppose it's different with John, though… he would never have wanted to forget us. It's strange, really, that things like this could be allowed to happen to people like John." She trailed off, coming back to herself, and bit her lip when she saw the drawn look in Sherlock's eyes. His jaw was clenched, eyes blinking rapidly. Possibly time to back pedal, she thought to herself. "But anyway, enough about me! He'll be staying in here, I take it?"

"On a trial period. A few weeks, give or take. Just to see how John handles it." His tone was light (and slightly forced) and Mrs Hudson could detect a hint of underlying sadness. After knowing Sherlock for as long as she had, you got used to deducing these sorts of things. She smiled and patted him on the back in an attempt to lift his mood.

"He'll be fine," she said, relishing in the grateful smile he shot her way, "As soon as he gets here, has a nice cuppa, he'll feel right at home. You'll be back to your old tricks again, solving crimes and coming home at God-knows what time in the morning! Just like before." Giving him one last look, she turned on her heel and wandered back down the stairs, humming lightly to herself. Sherlock stayed rooted to the spot, gloves in one hand and spray in the other, inhaling deeply. Fear and anxiety churned inside of him, two emotions he was becoming rather familiar with. He stared out of the window, and watched the taxis and people pass by below. He envyed their unattatchment, their freedom to do as they please and feel what they please. He watched the birds wheel in the sky, swooping and soaring without a care in the world. He pictured himself and John, hand in hand, racing through the streets, traversing potholes and pedestrians as they went. The chemicals in the air burned his nose and throat, made his eyes water and caused him to choke, but he let them – they were helping him focus. _Just like before_, he thought, _It'll be just like before._ He dropped the bottle on the floor and left the room, slamming the door shut behind him. Unsaid words lingered in his wake, mixing with the bitter-sweet smell of lemon grass and lavender now coating every inch of the room – it wouldn't be the same as before. It'd be exactly like starting again.


	10. Chapter 10

Sorry this took a while to update, I've been pretty busy :) Again, this chapter is unbetad so a warning to you to look out for mistakes. I know the past few chapters have been a bit shorter than the first few, but the next is a better length.

I'm also working on a Unilock fic collection (see my profile for the first installment) so I'd really appreciate some scenario prompts to work with, if anyone has any requests. Thanks, and enjoy!

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A little to the left, maybe?"

"No, more to the right. Is it too close to the fire?"

"He might get cold…"

"We don't usually have it lit…okay, _fine, _it's too close to the fire. Futher back, then. Suitable distance from the coffee table?"

"Yes, well in arms reach, even for his small stature – but sacrificing the view of the television, it seems."

"He used to watch it all the time, but when given the choice between TV and reaching his tea I'm sure he'd settle for the beverage."

"And you're sure about that?"

"80% sure. Balance of probability, dear brother."

"Sherlock…"

"Okay then, 65%." Mycroft sighed, leaning heavily on his umbrella and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Would you please calm down? We've been here for over an hour – I'm not sure John will even _care_ where his chair is placed."

"He loved his chair. Of course he'll care." Came a blunt reply, accompanied by the screech of wooden floorboards protesting against the dragging of yet another item of furniture.

"Yes, but will he remember? That's the big question here, isn't it Sherlock? Will John Watson remember…" Sherlock cocked his head to the side and surveyed his brother with a piercing glare. Tall, thin, receding hairline and a substantial amount of weight gained since the last time he'd had the pleasure of seeing him.

"Putting on weight, I see?" he remarked, tapping his stomach mockingly, all the while assessing each of his brothers flaws that could be used to his advantage.

"Loosing it, infact." Mycroft replied nonchalontly, picking up a pile of papers stuffed under the table and frowning at them in disgust. "Really, Sherlock, I thought you said you'd been cleaning?" He dropped them on the floor, smiling in triumph as they scattered. Sherlock rolled his eyes, standing. Taking a step towards Mycroft he placed both hands behind his back and circled him menecingly. Gained weight, new suit- rather expensive looking- and new cuff links aswell. Accompanied by a new tie (in colours that Mycroft really wouldn't have chosen on any other occasion) it led Sherlock to the only possible conclusion.

"Oh, Mycroft," he said sadly, shaking his head slightly. "You've found yourself a _goldfish?_" Mycroft stared at him for a moment, before coughing lightly and standing straighter.

"Don't be ridiculous, Sherlock. You know very well my views on-" he paused, licking his lips, before conntinuing "_Sentiment_."

"Yes, I do. I used to share in them." Sherlock smiled crookedly, enjoying the nervous air that had materialised around his brother. "The signs are there, Mycroft: even you can't deny it."

"I very much can, and will continue to for the remainder of the time you keep up this petty argument." Sherlock just smiled at him, and the triumph that lingered there made Mycroft wince.

"But who could it be…surely not _Anthea_, she wouldn't stoop so low: so somebody else from that workplace of yours. Then again, that's not very professional. So not someone you've known for a long time. And you're trying to make a good impression! How sweet, how sweet-"

"Sherlock, I swear, if you say-"

"New clothes, new tie…in colours you'd never have chosen yourself. So, shopping together? I doubt it, not with your fashion sense. So, what then?"

"Sherlock, please-"

"Oh! He bought it for you, correct?" Sherlock clasped his hands together, biting his lip as if overcome with emotion. "Mycroft, I can't tell you how happy I-"

"Sherlock!" Mycroft's cry echoed through the apartment and the detective froze mid sentence. Mycroft's face was flushed red, his mouth pressed into a thin line. "Really, brother, do stop showing off. For once, your deductions are inaccurate. I merely wanted a…change of character."

"Really? You surprise me, Mycroft, that you think for one second that I would believe that."

"I am telling you now, Sherlock, and once only. Drop it. It is none of your business to get involved in my personal life, especially one which you seem so intent on inventing." He slammed his umbrella on to the floor in finality, and moved to stand in the doorway. "I merely came here today to wish you good luck with the return of your own goldfish. It seems, however, you cannot even appreciate that."

Sherlock hummed to himself, walking slowly into the kitchen. He picked up an old petridish, one that had long been abandoned from one of his experiments, and held it at eye level. He gazed at it, deep in thought. Turning it slowly, he tapped his foot against the floor.

"That's not all you came for, though, is it?" he said, dropping the specimen back to the table with a flourish. "You, of all people, coming to visit? I highly doubt it, Mycroft, despite your clear attempts at a new," Sherlock sneered the word, "Personality."

Mycroft smiled slightly, moving towards John's armchair. With a soft thud and slightly too much force, he sat down heavily and reached into his coat pocket ignoring the horrific screech as the chair skittered backwards a few inches. Taking out a thin file of paper, he turned the cover and began flicking through. "I have an offer I'd like you to take. Some undercover work in eastern Europe. You've been personally requested." Sherlock scoffed a little and stared at Mycroft.

"Requested? By who?"

"Someone of significant importance, I assure you." He replied and held out the file for Sherlock to take. He took one glance at the cover, before striding towards the kitchen and dumping the contents in the bin. He turned round, rubbed his hands together, and smiled.

"So. I believe you were just leaving?" Mycroft stared at him down his nose, brows quirked down comically.

"Sherlock. This wasn't up for discussion. You are needed."

"By whom? Surely someone else could take the job. Because, frankly, right now I'm a little preoccupied." He grabbed his brother's umbrella and pulled it from his grasp, twirling it around dramatically. Mycroft clenched his jaw, his eyes flickering over Sherlock's face.

"Be reasonable, Sherlock. What's more important here? The return of a friend who no longer remembers who you are, or the fate and wellbeing of the entire country?"

"Deduce it for me." Sherlock coutered, stepping close to Mycroft and gripping his shoulder. His older brother huffed for a second, before pulling roughly out of the detective's grasp and standing quickly. He straightened his coat and readjusted his collar, watching Sherlock warily.

"Well. We appear to have reached an impass. I probably won't be intouch." Mycroft stated shortly, his voice resigned and slightly dissappointed. Sherlock nodded stoically, watching him walk towards the door. Before leaving, Mycroft turned. "Oh, and Sherlock? Do remember not to – how do they say – _screw things up._" He tipped his head in farewell and, accompanied by the continuous tap of his umbrella on the stairs, left the flat.

Sherlock inhaled deeply and clenched his fists. Mycroft Holmes was a difficult man to converse with, and Sherlock had had the pleasure of dealing with him his whole life. With an exasperated sigh, he turned back to John's chair muttering under his breath as he readjusted the cushion, patting it carefully and positioning it in the centre. He stood, admiring his handy work, and surveyed the room for imperfections. Gone were the toppling piles of papers from Scotland Yard, haphazardly shoved onto any clear surface there was; any trace of experiments, holes burnt in the rug or strange stains on the walls, had been removed and worked away; the windows had been cleaned and (much to Mrs Hudson's delight) Sherlock had actually run a hoover round the place. The kitchen had been cleaned, the fridge decontaminated and restocked with food (all of John's favourites, of course.) Sherlock had spent extra care tidying John's room, removing any trace of his presence there. He'd remade the bed, cleaned and ironed his sheets and removed anything he thought might trigger memories. That'd meant moving the wooden chair, where Sherlock had sat and played the violin on the nights where John's dreams caused him to cry out and toss in his sleep. It'd meant hiding his gun in Sherlock's desk, thoroughly out of both John's mind and reach. It'd pained Sherlock to do so – many times he'd had to pause in his acts and stand for a moment, breathing deeply, before continuing. Finally it was done, but to Sherlock the flat wasn't the same. It was empty and cold and missing the crutial piece.


	11. Chapter 11

Sorry, this update took ages ._. lots of school work to do...again, it's unbetad so apologies for any mistakes.

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_The crutial piece…_

Moving away swiftly, Sherlock swallowed thickly and fled to the kitchen, the words echoing loudly in his head. Finding relief in the smooth, cold feeling of the table, he sat down heavily on one of the stools and laid his cheek against it. Closing his eyes, he lost himself to the tick of the clock hung nearby as it counted down the minutes to John's return. He forced his breathing to even at the prospect and tried to control his racing pulse. _Should I make tea? Or food? _

Tick.

_Maybe I should go out for a while, wait for John to settle in by himself…_

Tock.

_No, I wanted to be here when that happens. _

Tick.

_But would it be weird for me to shadow John like that? He'd want his space, after returning from the hospital, so maybe I shouldn't…_

Tock.

The questions spiralled in Sherlock's head, chasing each other round and round and causing indecsion to flutter and knaw at his stomach. The sounds of London drifted through the flat, seeking enterance through open windows. They swirled around 221b, something Sherlock was glad of. The distant buzz of aimless chatter, only revealing the important secrets it held if one was listening closely enough was accompanied by the endless drone of taxis zipping down roads faster than was acceptable and the sounds of birds swooping unnoticed in the sky. Lifting his head from it's resting place, Sherlock raked it in letting the London soundtrack calm his nerves and smooth out his doubts and worries. He glanced at the clock – 2:12pm. John was late. He leapt from his seat, hands working furiously infront of him as he paced. He crossed the living room, stopping at the window and glanced out onto the street. There was nothing to signal John's arrival. Frowning, Sherlock walked back towards the kitchen before thinking twice, and turning towards his own bedroom. He pushed open the door, mouth twisting in disgust at the sight of the cleaness. _It even _smells _different, _he thought with disdain as he turned to face himself in the mirror attached to the wall on his left. Sherlock watched as his throat bobbed when he swallowed, and his hands ran nervously down the front of his fresh shirt. It was deep purple, one he'd bought years ago, contrasting with both his pale skin and dark hair which hung low over his eyes. It was desperately in need of cutting, but Sherlock pushed it back impatiently and straightened his collar.

Huffing out an impatient breath, he folded his arms tight across his chest and tapped his foot endlessly. One ear turned towards the door, the other to the street outside, he assessed himself – not something he usual like doing, as it highlighted his weaknesses, but today he felt the need to identify them. He reached for his laptop, sitting quietly on his bed, and flicked it open with haste. He brought up the internet, clicking onto a website he'd found himself visiting more often these days. The address was achingly familiar and Sherlock's heart gave a pang as his eyes scanned over the homepage. The Blog of John H Watson, emblazoned in large letters across the top of the screen stared back at him and Sherlock quickly navigated away to the blog entries with a swift click. Biting his bottom lip thoughtfully he flicked through them, a small smile ghosting over his lips as he recalled the many times John would sit at the table, typing for hours, content to dedicate his life to their ridiculous adventures. The room was always silent, save for the slow tapping of John's fingers and the steady slurps of Sherlock drinking his tea – it was an atmosphere the detective had gotten use to. He scrolled through them, keeping one eye on his pulse, monitoring the way it sped up nearly imperceptibly as he heard each car pass Baker Street. His palms were clammy and shaking, a tell-tale sign of nerves that Sherlock wasn't used to seeing on himself, so he tried to occupy himself with what lay before him. It held none of its usual conviction, though, and the detective soon found his mind wandering. Sighing gustily, Sherlock was about to move away when one account caught his eye. The title alone caused Sherlock to draw breath sharply, something cold and alien tugging painfully at his heart tendons and twisting ruthlessly. 'A Study in Pink' flashed across his vision and he was accosted with memories – the biting cold of the London air, sharp and acrid against his burning lungs as he raced through London, John by his side, breath fogging and coat flapping at his sides. The dull aching of his legs as they'd given chase, the more than welcome sound of John's heavy breaths by his side, the sound of John's laughter like music to the detective's ears…the sinking realisation and finality, alone in the university, that there was every possibility he could die there. Sherlock rubbed a hand across the back of his neck, mouth dry, but he forced himself to read on.

_When I first met Sherlock, he told me my life story. He could tell so much about me from my limp, my tan and my mobile phone. And that's the thing with him. It's no use trying to hide what you are because Sherlock sees right through everyone and everything in seconds. _

Sherlock let the words sink in. He could almost hear the sound of John speaking them, admiration plain in his voice, as it had been during their first cab ride together. To Sherlock, it seemed like years had passed. He'd got used to having John around, and now that he was no longer a part of Sherlock's life, time seemed to be passing more slowly…

_What's incredible, though, is how spectacularly ignorant he is about some things. This morning, for example, he asked me who the Prime Minister was. Last week he seemed to genuinely not know the Earth goes round the Sun. Seriously. He didn't know. He didn't think the Sun went round the Earth or anything. He just didn't care. I still can't quite believe it. _

A small chuckle escaped his lips, eyes lighting up as he remembered John's face, a picture of shock and disbelief coupled with a certain amount of amusement, and even triumph. _To have the one up on Sherlock Holmes,_ the detective mused, _was a rare thing for John to have accomplished, in his eyes…_

_And after all that? Well, me and my flatmate went for a Chinese. Like I say, he really does know some great restaurants._

Sherlock skim-read to the end of the article – he'd seen it all before countless times, firstly in the confines of his own room on the night John published it and many moments after that when their relationship came into question following another stupid argument (the majority of which, Sherlock was reluctant to reveal, were caused by him). He'd never shared his views on it, though, and had resolutely shown no interest in the blog whatsoever. In privacy, however, Sherlock had poured over every sentence, reliving again the nights spent roaming the streets with his faithful friend. Smiling to himself Sherlock pushed the laptop away from himself, clicking it shut with finality. He moved off the bed, smoothing down his trousers, and made his way to the living room. It was approaching quarter to 3 and worry was beginning to bite at his insides again. John had been scheduled to arrive at 2, accompanied by Dr Franklin, and Sherlock had taken extra care that he had woken with plenty of time to rearrange the flat. By 12, he had been finished and ready to retire to the sofa until John arrived. The unannounced visit of his brother, however, had thrown him off course and put his work under scrutiny. Sherlock moved to the door of the flat, placing his hand on the handle. He paused for a moment, composing himself, before smiling widely and pushing open the door.

"Ah, Dr Franklin!" he beamed to the empty air, "Come in!" he stepped back, gesturing to the flat. He shook his head, smile dropping from his lips, and he slammed the door shut. Rubbing his hands together, he tried again.

"Dr Franklin." He said solemnly, no smile present, with a small tip of his head. "Welcome to Baker Street." He turned on his heel abruptly and kicked the door shut behind him.

"Too formal, too formal," he muttered quietly, eyes tracing over the floor furiously. "Happy to see them, but not like I've been _waiting _for them…" He slumped back on the sofa, knees apart and arms hanging weakly at his sides. He sat in silence, mind racing. It wasn't long before he was pulled from his train of thought, though. Jumping up from his seat, and raced to the window and peered out from behind the shelter of the frame. Below, a dark car was unloading it's passengers onto the pavement. Sherlock eyed them, taking in heights and style of dress to assess their positions: one doctor, one driver and one ex-army patient. Perfect. He grinned happily to himself, bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet. He heard the distinct clip clop of Mrs Hudson's shoes on tiled floor as she approached the front door, and the unmistakable squeak of hinges as said door protested on opening. The sounds of polite chatter drifted up the stairs and Sherlock quickly assembled himself. Coughing quietly to clear his throat, he walked towards the door and waited silently behind it, ears tracking the ascent of the visitors. Excitement and nerves buzzed through his veins – John stood only feet away from him now, and all he waited for was the steady knock on the door. It came, moments later, after some scuffling of feet and low, affirming whispers. Sherlock pulled open the door quickly, breathe catching in his throat. Before him stood Dr Franklin, all smiles and cautionary eyes, with John directly behind him.

Sherlock licked his lips, eyes racking over the smaller man, assessing condition, injuries and response to his forgotten home. Dark circles framed his eyes, which were drawn and slightly hesitant, and his mouth was set in a thin line. Not angry, Sherlock thought, but tired. He looked dead on his feet, skin paler than normal, with hair growing out of its customary military cut that Sherlock had always been fond of. Talking of feet, Sherlock noticed the metal object grasped in John's grip. Sherlock's heart sank – his stick. John leant upon it heavily, knuckles whitened around the handle and Sherlock felt anger rise in his throat. _Why the hell was that there?_ he thought, fingers clenching around the door frame. The clarity of their situation came into sharp focus as Sherlock realised just how much John had changed. Old injuries had returned, haunting to Sherlock as he remembered the nightmares that had accompanied the wound. His eyes snapped back to the doctor as a small cough echoed from his throat.

"Dr Franklin," he croaked. His voice was hoarse with withheld emotion, and he felt his cheeks pinken as Franklin looked at him in concern. "Come in." he continued hastily and ushered both men inside. He turned his head as John brushed past him, stick thumping hard on the ground and echoing Sherlock's heart beats. The detective swallowed and stood beside the sofa. All the colour had drained from his face and a storm of emotions rolled beneath his eyes. Shaking himself mentally, he curved his lips into what he hoped was a relatively normal smile, a defence, he told himself, that would be easily broken down.

"Please, sit. Anywhere." He replied and gestured to the chairs. He didn't sit himself, however, but watched John carefully. He stood, stick in hand, eyes roaming around the flat and taking in every detail. His face had softened slightly, but a frown still mottled his forehead, and an awkward silence descended on them, broken only by a small cough from Franklin, who took it upon himself to speak first.

"So, John," he spoke carefully and slowly, as if approaching a volatile child, and Sherlock wanted to scream at him for being so obvious and insensitive. "I want you to meet an old friend of yours." Franklin nodded at Sherlock, inviting him to take centre stage. The detective froze, mouth falling open comically. John stared at him, brain taut and strained against an onslaught of times gone by, watching the way his dark curls bobbed and obscured his pale eyes from view. He clutched the stick tighter, switching weight on his legs and looked at him expectantly, nerves making his abdomen clench. He watched the way Sherlock's eyes relaxed when they looked at him, a wealth of emotion brewing behind the dark lashes. He opened his mouth to speak, and the deep baritone drew a ghost of a shiver across John's arms and mind.

"John," Sherlock tried, voice quaking around the word, "John Watson," he tried again, and closed his eyes before continuing, "I'm Sherlock Holmes." Bright blue eyes met deep brown as they stared at one another, poised for the explosion they all knew was imminent. John took a step forward, acting on impulse.

"I know," he replied, watching the way the taller man's mouth tightened at the reply, the way his eyebrows twitched with anxiety. The planes of his face darkened slightly under John's insistent gaze, so he held his hand out, breaching the gap between them. Neither man had eyes for Franklin, who was stood awkwardly to the side, eyes trained steadily out of the window, observing but not intruding. Sherlock stared at the hand in front of him; the hand he'd held at John's bedside, the wrist he'd grasped time and time again to pull along in the chase, the hand that had grasped cups of tea or had brushed against Sherlock's a little too familiarly before pulling away, out of reach yet again – he simply stared at it, eyes flickering across each finger and knuckle. After a long, tense moment, full of held breath and unspoken questions and answers, he reached out his own. Skin met skin, and they shook.


	12. Chapter 12

Slightly short chapter, I think, but one of my favourites so far. Sorry the update took so long - internet troubles. I'm behind on my writing, so the next chapter may be a while away... hopefully this will be enough to keep you interested ;)

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For the first time in a while, the flat was silent. Save for the occasional squeak of a chair, or the clearing of a throat, not a word was exchanged between the two men. The air was still, but it was not a peaceful silence, and Sherlock was itching for something to be said. His teeth bore down on the inside of his bottom lip, gnawing relentlessly, and his fingers drummed out a compulsive rhythm on the leather arm rest. Punctuated only by the sounds of John idly turning the page of his newspaper, this was the soundtrack that had descended on Baker Street after Dr Franklin had departed. In some ways, Sherlock wished he would have stayed a little longer. Not for the pleasure of his company, but to save him from this need of conversation. John seemed perfectly happy, however, eyes skimming the latest news with interest. It was almost like before, Sherlock mused. John in his chair, newspaper in hand, looking for the latest cases they could fixate over and Sherlock perched in front of him, impatient and waiting. Only one thing was missing, it seemed.

"Would you like some tea?" Sherlock blurted, his voice shockingly loud in the silence. Startled, John looked up in alarm and Sherlock closed his mouth quickly. "It's fine if you don't." he amended, fingers working into the fabric of his trousers.

"Actually, I-"

"I just thought you might be thirsty, you haven't had a drink yet, not since at the hospital I doubt. Sorry, I shouldn't have mentioned the hospital, pretend I didn't say that."

"Yes, that'd be-"

"Or any food, for that matter. Are you hungry?"

"_Sherlock." _John voice cut through Sherlock's firmly. The detective glanced at him in shock, fully prepared to encounter anger, but saw only amusement dancing on John's face. His lips were curved into a small smile, and the newspaper was folded on his lap.

"Sorry." Sherlock replied, "I'm just a little…" he trailed off, eyes flickering past space around John's head - never quite meeting his gaze.

"I know," John supplied, and Sherlock felt a surge of gratitude towards him. _Thank you for understanding, _he thought_, thankyouthankyouthankyou. _"Tea would be lovely." Sherlock moved towards the kitchen, long legs making short work of the journey, and John heard the calming sound of the kettle boiling and drinks being prepared. He settled back into his chair – no, _the _chair, not his chair, and stretched his leg out in front of him, sighing as the muscles relaxed into the warmth the fire was emitting. With a small sigh, his gaze wandered around the flat, taking in the neat stacks of books and sparkling windows. Someone obviously took good care of the place.

Sherlock hopped around the kitchen, arms moving in double speed as he grabbed 2 mugs (John's favourite, of course, the army one with the crest on the front) and started splashing milk into both of them. His foot tapped impatiently on the floor as the kettle took it's time to heat up, and he was hit again with a strong sense of nostalgia as the sight of John sat comfortably in his chair crossed his vision. Blinking away a surplus surge of joy, he threw in 2 teabags and haphazardly filled them with water. No sugar for John, two sugars for himself. Giving them both a quick stir, grasping the handles and taking a deep, calming breath, he wandered back over to the fireplace and placed John's cup on the table beside him. Glancing up, John nodded in thanks.

"Uh, I probably should have said, I don't take-"

"I know," Sherlock replied. "No sugar." He sat down opposite, taking a scorching sip, and relaxed back into the soft leather.

"It's good." John remarked, licking his lips.

"Thanks." They returned to their business, the silence noticeably more relaxed now that both were in the presence of a hot beverage. John watched the curls of steam rising steadily from the mug that rested on his knee, as they twisted and faded into the air. He stared at the dark liquid, radiating heat from its porcelain prison, and cast his eyes to the design on the side. It was a crest of some kind, red with angry twists of green and ornate gold. It depicted a snake twisted around a pole, surrounded by a wreath and topped with a golden crown, embellished with a Latin phrase below it. John frowned, holding it up to eye height. Above the surface, he could see Sherlock look up at him sharply and place his own mug hastily on the table, fingers twisting together anxiously. He paid no attention, and instead focussed again on the Latin. _In Arduis Fidelis, _it read, and something in the back of John's mind gave a painful twinge. Swallowing hard, he racked his brains for some connection to the phrase, filtering through the mass of information dumped haphazardly in his conscience.

"Faithful in Adversity," he mumbled, mind working on autopilot as it pulled the translation from deep in the no man's land of John's memories. He saw Sherlock give a sharp jerk of his head, followed by a feeble attempt to gain John's attention. Sherlock clapped his hands together, forcing himself to smile widely.

"Are you hungry, John?" He didn't answer. Instead he squeezed shut his eyes, almost willing the memory to take over. Curiosity burned in his stomach, and it was a moment before John felt the familiar rush of the past taking over.

"John, don't-" Sherlock started, leaning forward in his chair. His eyes were wide and wild with nerves.

For John, he was no longer in Baker Street. He'd let the images wash over him, flashing across his eye lids in rapid concession: shots of sandy land that he immediately recognised as the battle field, cramped living quarters full of big, burly men and the searing heat of the Afghanistan sun. None of this was new, though. He'd been through it all with Franklin. What he really wanted, what John _craved_, was something new and exciting - just one new memory, even a small one, fitting into place and proving to himself that he _was _getting better. _Come on,_ John thought at himself, n_othing to give me?_ After a moment's hesitation, his brain responded in kind with an onslaught of images, fast and furious. John's eyes clenched against them, flickering rapidly under his closed lids. _Still_ nothing of interest. More scenery (London now, mixed with flashbacks of Afghan) with softly spoken snippets of conversation to go with them.

_Welcome to the 5th Northumberland Fusiliers, Captain Watson….Grenade! Get down!...Seen a lot of violent deaths, then?...Want to see some more?_

John slammed on the breaks, halting the images with a surprised huff of breath. He rewound the mental film, pausing on a still of…well, exactly where he was now. John, looking younger and much healthier than he did now, sat in the same chair, with the same stick by his side. John moved to the side of the picture, noticing the coat-clad figure just behind him. It was Sherlock. Standing tall in a long, black coat and tightly fitting shirt, John could hear the echoes of his voice. _You're an army doctor,_ they sang and John flinched as his brain twanged with pain and…something else as well. Something akin to pain, but not nearly as horrendous – something thoroughly addictive. John shook it off, focussing on Sherlock. Without so much as a prod, the image moved on, fading back into the darkness, only to be replaced with a series of shots of 2 men – always the same two, but in different settings and different situations. John frowned, the cup in his hand completely forgotten. It was him, he realised with a start. And… Sherlock Holmes. Together. The images continued to fly by, each one so similar to the other, and John had a hard time catching his breath. Stolen glances, one staring intently at the other, John reaching out to grab Sherlock's arm, Sherlock reaching out to grip John's wrist, racing through London hand in hand, sitting in Baker Street (tea in hand) smiles on their faces, eyes only for each other - his throat closed up and he forced out a cough to clear it, his brain aching with the force of emotions tumbling through him. Anger, pain, joy and – John coughed again. It was that feeling again. The same he got when they made eye contact, or brushed hands accidently or trailed off and just _stared _at each other. And, frankly, John was getting extremely nervous about it. It blazed trails of fire through his insides, squeezing at his heart and chest and making him short of breath. Hot bursts of pain radiated through his skull, and he dropped his cup of tea with a rattling intake of breath. From somewhere beyond his internal torment, he heard Sherlock give a surprised cry and felt him lunge to ground beside him.

"John!" the voice was muffled, almost as if he'd been submerged, but the anguish in Sherlock's voice was like a hook in John's throat – he was yanked from the memory abruptly, his brain being silenced by the insistent shaking at his shoulders. He opened his eyes, hands shaking. His breath came in short rasps, and he was greeted with a pair of large, deep blue eyes staring straight through him.

"I'm okay," John sighed, both in reassurance of himself and in reply to Sherlock's shout. Sherlock stared at him doubtfully, mind racing.

"Are you sure? I'm sorry, I shouldn't have given you the mug, but it's one of your favourites and I-"

"What were we, Sherlock?" John interrupted, voice cutting through Sherlock's sharp and to the point. The detective froze, eyes widening.

"What do you mean?" he asked, his voice hoarse and slightly deeper than usual.

"I mean what I said," John replied, temper flaring. He was sick of this – sick of being left out of _everything,_ deemed too weak and volatile to know anything. He'd proven himself, though – he could find things out on his own. He was strong enough. "What _were_ we Sherlock? Or, actually, should I call you Mr Holmes? Because I definitely don't know you right now, but I get the feeling it was very different before." The strange emotion was gone now, completely dissipated along with the memories. The imprint of it, though, still lingered on John's mind and he found it fuelling his anger.

"John, don't- I don't know what to say." Sherlock said, trying to mask the fear that was evident in his voice.

"Just tell me, because I sure as fuck can't remember." Sherlock winced at the curse – swearing-John was _not_ something he wanted to encounter right now. He thought for a moment, sitting back on his haunches and placing the fallen cup to the side. A tea-coloured stain was mottling the carpet, but that was the least of Sherlock's worries. After a moment, he spoke, but his voice was taut and barely controlled.

"We were friends."

"I don't believe you."

"John-"

"No, I don't believe you. Why don't I believe you?" John's voice rose an octave and he watched as Sherlock's face, pale and drawn, tightened discreetly.

"I don't know what to tell you, John." He said through gritted teeth. In that moment, John could've punched him.

"The truth, maybe?"

"That was the truth. We were friends - are friends. We were friends." He repeated, eyes pleading with John to just _drop it._

John shook his head, a sardonic smile ghosting over his lips. He was skirting around the question, John realised – so, Sherlock didn't want to share. That was fine by him. He'd only just met the man, anyway.

"Okay. Okay, I need-" John drew in a deep breath, puffing out his cheeks on releasing it. "I need some air." Sherlock pressed his lips together, brow knitted together in frustration and concern. He'd made a mess of things _again._ But there was no way he could give John a straight answer. _Friends is good – friends is enough_, he thought, but his heart sank in his chest as John got steadily to his feet and strode out of the room. His stick lay abandoned on the floor beside his chair, knocked over by Sherlock in his haste to tend to John. Sherlock stared at it, hands resting empty and cold in his lap.


End file.
